#yeah it's still hell to take a good picture of watercolors

[andrew-the-architect]

I made this in my sketchbook, about a character in a roleplay session. I didn't found it particulary good, but people tend to like it.

His (Her ?) name is Kokabiel Barjavel, and the t-shirt was suppose to have a funny message on it.

#sketchbook #original character #oc #artists on tumblr #watercolors #d&d #roleplay #demon #demon trap #fire #illustrators on tumblr #illustration #half demon #demonic #yeah it's still hell to take a good picture of watercolors

[scuttling]

Happy Accidents

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairings: Aaron Hotchner/Female Reader Word Count: 6,300 Tags: 18+, NSFW, Art, Neighbor Hotch, Shy and Oblivious Hotch, Flirting, It's soo sappy I'm sorry, Oral sex, Unprotected sex Summary: Aaron's new neighbor is out of his league for so many reasons: she's young, beautiful, artistic, unique, free-spirited, the kind of person who turns heads when she walks down the street. It's no wonder he ends up falling in love with her. *Requested by anon Link to A03 or read below! Against all of his better judgement, Aaron is kind of creeping on his new next door neighbor.

He is absolutely the type of man, any other time, to approach a woman he’s interested in and introduce himself, look for a way to connect, some common ground, but this is no ordinary woman.

She is out of his league in so many ways: young, beautiful, unique, free-spirited, the type of person who turns heads when she walks down the street. There’s not a chance in hell she would look twice at an old, stuffy, monotone suit with a seven year old son and perpetual bags under his eyes. That’s not him feeling bad about himself, it’s just the way the world works.

The first time he saw her, she was getting on the elevator while he was getting off of it, and they’d bumped into each other; she was wearing a short, flowy dress, and she’d smiled at him, apologized, eyes sparkling, smelling like she’d spent all day in the sunshine. It was the only time since Haley he’d ever entertained the idea of love at first sight.

She keeps to herself most of the time, gives off the air of being really cool and mysterious; their paths have crossed a few times since then—at the bank of mailboxes downstairs, in the hallway they share, once during a false alarm fire alarm—but he enjoys watching her paint more than anything.

They have balconies next to each other, and one night when he was tending to his herb garden—Jack enjoys watching the plants grow, and picking the herbs, Aaron likes to eat them—he spotted her standing on hers, facing away from him, in cut off jean shorts and a baggy t-shirt, barefoot. She’d been painting the city, the sky, with the sunset glowing behind her like she was the work of art, and he actually felt an ache in his chest, the feeling of missing someone he’s never really met.

Since that night, he’s started taking his work outside in the evenings after Jack goes to bed, and sitting in near silence while she paints, hums—sometimes songs he knows, sometimes songs he doesn’t. The first time he goes out before she does, she says hello when she drags her easel out, so he starts to say hello to her when she beats him there, too, but that’s pretty much the extent of their interaction. One evening when Aaron and Jack are getting home from dinner, she is lugging a canvas bigger than she is through the hallway and Jack almost runs headfirst into it; when he looks up, he exclaims about how big it is, and pretty—it’s covered with colors, something abstract and cheerful, and even if he’d seen it on the side of the road, he would have just known that she painted it. (That may be a good indicator that he’s getting in a little too deep.)

“Wow, that’s the biggest painting I’ve ever seen! And so many colors,” Jack says, awed. Aaron puts his hands on his shoulders to keep him out of her way; they’re already bothering her enough, when she’s clearly trying to get that giant thing home.

“It’s pretty cool, isn’t it? I carry bigger pieces around at my studio, believe it or not,” she says to him, poking her head around the side to look at him.

“You have a studio?” His eyes are wide with interest; his favorite subject has always been art, as evidenced by their refrigerator, which is covered in drawings. She offers him an even brighter smile.

“I do! It’s not far from here; it’s called Live in Color. There’s a big rainbow painted on the side.”

“That’s so cool; it must be awesome to have your own studio.” Aaron loves that Jack seems to be so passionate about this, but the way they are obviously holding her up has him feeling awkward; he tugs gently on Jack’s backpack.

“That is really cool, bud, but we should let her go. I’m sure that’s heavy.” She smiles, shrugs.

“It’s no trouble. Hey, actually, we have some children’s art classes at the studio, and you look like you’d fit right in with the Green group—ages 7-9?” She looks up at Aaron, who nods. “Maybe we can talk dad into bringing you down sometime. We do painting, drawing, and crafts, it’s really fun.” She’s still looking right at Aaron, gives him a little wink, and he swears to god he gets butterflies in his stomach.

He’s a grown man. A federal agent. With butterflies. It’s insane.

“Oh man, dad, please? Can I take classes at her studio pleeease?” Jack tugs on the sleeve of his suit, and he nods, smiles down at him.

“Yeah, absolutely, Jack. We’ll go down and get more information tomorrow?” he offers, to both placate him and finally free the poor girl from the conversation; he nods excitedly, and she smiles, looks sweet, genuinely happy Jack is so excited to take the class.

“Cool, I look forward to seeing you guys there. Actually, if you give me one sec, I can grab my card for you.” She passes them, carrying the canvas and looking effortless while she does it; she props it up against the wall to get her keys out, unlocks her door and heads in, pops back out with a business card in a vivid watercolor yellow. “It has the address and phone number for the studio on the front, and I put my cell on the back; I figured it couldn’t hurt, considering we live next door to each other. Now you know who to call if you ever have an art emergency.”

He takes the card from her fingers, flips it over just to see the handwritten name and number; he knew her script would be lovely, and it is, easy and flowing and natural. It suits her. He tries not to grin, or flush, or otherwise be awkward about the fact that she just gave him her phone number, however innocently.

“Thank you. We’ll see you tomorrow.” They turn to head for their apartment, and she clears her throat; he smiles a little, turns back, and she’s leaning casually up against the canvas with her arms crossed.

“You know my name now. What’s yours?” She’s just being polite, but he gets the goddamn butterflies again.

“Aaron.” She smiles, something beautiful and a little wild.

“Okay, Aaron. See you outside.” From then on, most of their free time, be it evenings or weekends, is spent at the studio. Aaron isn’t the only parent who sticks around—it’s an art class, not a daycare, he doesn’t feel right just dropping Jack off and leaving him there—and he’s also not the only parent, it seems, who is aware of his beautiful young neighbor.

“She’s incredible, right?” another dad says to him one evening, over by the coffee. Aaron looks him over briefly—it’s a job hazard, he sizes up everyone, but he already has a weird feeling about this guy. “I’ve been bringing my kid here for a month just to look at that little ass running around. My wife just thinks our daughter is just really into art.” He says it with a laugh, like that’s a ridiculous concept. Aaron feels himself start to boil.

“You shouldn’t be disrespectful. She’s doing a great thing here, for the children; she’s not doing it for you to ogle her.” He feels a little hypocritical, because he is also looking, but not like this guy. He knows guys like this. He puts away guys like this.

He glances over at Aaron, looking a little taken aback that someone actually commented on his behavior, then rolls his eyes.

“She doesn’t need you to defend her honor, buddy. She wouldn’t run around here in those overalls if she didn’t want us looking. It’s job security.” She’s wearing the overalls tonight, denim shorts with one of the straps unhooked, a t-shirt underneath, but it’s not as if she’s performing a striptease. She just looks like an artist, covered in drips of paint, smiling as she looks at the kids’ pictures over their shoulders. Aaron really, really hates this guy.

“In my experience, women usually dress for themselves; they probably have pockets, easier to keep things at hand that she may need, and it’s warm in here, so she’s likely dressing for comfort. She’s certainly not dressing for you.”

As if she can sense the tension, she looks over at them, flicks her eyes over Aaron, then the other guy, and walks over with a soft smile on her face.

“Hey, Aaron, Jack really wanted you to see what he’s working on.” She reaches out a hand, wraps it around his wrist and guides him over to Jack’s table. “I figured I’d save you,” she says when they’re out of earshot. “That guy sucks. He’s always saying creepy things to me and Alaina.”

“You should ask him to leave if he makes you uncomfortable,” he says, looking down at her with worry. “I can do it.” She shrugs.

“I would, but his daughter really does enjoy the class, and it’s not fair to her that her dad’s disgusting. It’s nothing we can’t handle.” She squeezes his wrist lightly. “Thanks, though. Hey Jack, show dad your project.” He peers over his shoulder, and it’s a pink and orange skyline, much like the one he saw her painting that first time on the balcony. “I asked the kids to paint my favorite thing today, and that’s sunset.”

“I saw you painting this one night,” he says, and then he feels abruptly like an idiot. She just smiles at him though, nods.

“Yeah, I’m a sucker for a beautiful sunset. It makes you feel like, just because the day ends, it doesn’t have to mean things are over; it’s just one of life’s beautiful natural transitions. And the colors are to die for: peach, coral, jasmine, rose, tiger’s eye.” He finds himself unexpectedly touched by her description, smiles softly to shake himself of the emotions.

“The way you see the world is extraordinary. To me it’s just kind of… orange.” She returns his expression, but softer, and squeezes his wrist again; he didn’t even realize she was still holding it.

“Sounds like you need some art in your heart. I give lessons for adults, too; you could even come over and paint with me on my balcony, some time. Special neighbor privileges.”

The thought of being with her on her balcony while she paints is almost overwhelming, which he finds funny, considering he currently sits no more than twenty feet away. There is an intimacy about it, while they both do their work in the cool, quiet breeze, but standing like this, close enough to touch, with the late day sun on her face while she talks about colors… he’s not sure he could handle it without falling in love.

She pats him on the back, moves on to another child, and he tells Jack what a great job he’s doing; his face is lit up, so happy, and regardless of the neighbor, he’s glad they stumbled upon this hobby.

When they pack up to leave, the jerk from earlier comes up to him, leans in to speak in a hushed voice. “You should have just told me you were fucking her. I would have backed off.” He blinks, but the guy and his daughter are walking out the door before he finds himself able to do more than that. About a week later, he goes over for that lesson almost by accident. Jack is at Jessica’s for the night at his request, and Aaron was planning to order takeout and have a paperwork cramming session, but when goes out onto the balcony, phone in hand to place an order, his neighbor is standing on hers like she’s waiting for him.

“Hey. I saw you don’t have Jack; I made some pasta with vodka sauce, if you’re hungry. I always prepare too much.” He sets his phone on the table, walks over to the railing to get a little closer.

“Uh. Sure. I have fresh basil growing here; trade?” She smiles, nods.

“Yeah, sounds delicious. I’ll be right back.” She ducks inside, returns a few moments later with two dishes of steaming, saucy pasta, sets one down on her table and gets right up against her railing, hands the other over to him across his. “That one’s for you,” she says, handing him an orange plate, and he sets it down, picks a few good looking leaves from his basil plant and tears them up, drops them on top. “And this one’s for me.” She reaches, holds a green plate over the gap between their porches, and he adds some basil to it before she pulls it back, takes a deep sniff. “God, it smells so good and fresh. Thank you, Aaron.”

“Thank you, it looks great.” He goes to sit at his table with it, but she scoots her chair closer to the railing, closer to his balcony, so he does the same. They make easy small talk while they eat, mostly about Jack, a little about her studio and his work.

“FBI, huh? I can definitely see that, with your suits, and your… neutrals.” She cringes when she says it, and it makes him laugh.

“I’m sorry I can’t wear paint covered overalls to the office,” he teases, and she shoots him a playfully affronted look, grins.

“You love my paint covered overalls—and for the record, you’d look great in them. You should find a pair. Preferably not black.” He flushes a little at that, but she doesn’t notice, just finishes up her pasta with a sigh of contentment. “That was so good, thanks again for the basil.”

“You’re welcome; thanks for feeding me something other than the takeout I planned to have.” He stands up, gestures to his apartment. “I’ll wash the plate and then hand it back over.”

“Why don’t you just bring it over and come paint with me for a little while? If you want,” she tacks on, and for the first time she seems a little nervous. “I’m not trying to be pushy, I just think it would be fun.”

It’s not that he doesn’t want to; it would be amazing to watch her paint up close and personal. He’s just also afraid he’ll pass the point of no return if he does it, and he can’t handle any more heartache. He only very recently got to a place where just waking up in the morning no longer causes him agony.

It’s the look on her face, though, soft and sweet and open, that makes his decision for him.

“Yeah, okay. I’d like that.” She grins.

“I’ll unlock the door.”

She’s dragging out her easel when he walks through the door; her apartment is stark white walls with vibrant furniture, artwork, canvases propped up against every bare spot along the wall, paints and brushes and charcoal and pencils on every surface. It’s exactly what he would have expected, warm and lived-in and comforting, very unlike the mostly black and gray interior of his own apartment. She smiles when she sees him.

“Hey! Can you grab that tray of paint on your way out?” she asks, and he picks up what looks kind of like an ice cube tray filled with many different colors, carries it out to the balcony with him. She has a canvas propped up, a little larger than a computer monitor, and she’s gotten started, but he can’t tell what it’s going to be just yet. When he hands her the paint she looks down at it, peers around the edge of the canvas like she’s comparing something. He’s so intrigued, curious about the way her mind works, what she’s thinking.

“What are you painting?” he asks when she picks up a brush, sets it down, picks up another. She smiles at him.

“Well, we’re painting that.” She points to the street, where there’s a rusty, pale blue antique car parked—he says that loosely, because it looks broken down—in the alley. Aaron chuckles softly.

“We’re going to paint that? It’s a little… grim.”

“Yes. It’s part of a series I just decided to create: ‘Beauty in the Ordinary.’” She sighs, and he’s surprised to see that her eyes are a little wet. She wipes the back of her hand over her eyes. “You know Bob Ross, right? Everyone knows Bob Ross.” He nods.

“Yes; the guy who paints the happy trees on PBS.”

“Right. I used to watch him growing up, and I vividly remember something he said once, about needing both darkness and light in life and in painting. ‘You have to have a little sadness once in a while to know when the good times come. I’m waiting on the good times now.’” She sniffles, exhales softly. “I’m waiting on the good times too. Sometimes looking at things like this car, and forcing myself to find something beautiful in it, is the easiest way to get through the day. Does that make sense?” He swallows hard when she looks up at him, because aside from Jack, she has been the lightest part of his life since the first time they passed each other on the elevator.

“Yeah, it really does.” She shoots him a soft, slightly sadder smile, and then explains about the paints a little, shows him the difference in the brushes, lets him feel the weight of them, the textures of the bristles.

She starts painting the car—the background is mostly finished—and he’s more than happy to watch, to hear her talk about her process. She asks if she can use his forearm to mix paints, and he turns it over, wrist up, tries not to smile too hard when she puts some dark blue on him, then white, mixing them and then comparing them to the car on the street. He looks down at her, the concentration on her face, the softness in her eyes, and is met with the sudden desire to brush a line of paint over her nose and make her laugh and kiss her breathless.

“Okay, your turn,” she says when she’s about halfway done with the car. She puts her hands on the backs of his arms, pulls him in front of the canvas so she’s between him and the railing. “You’ve been watching me, so you know what to do.” He has been watching her, but not necessarily for her technique, so he’s a little nervous; he dips the brush in the blue paint but hesitates to make a stroke. “I have faith in you, Aaron. Here.”

She wraps her fingers around his hand, guides him toward the canvas, and together they make a wide, curved line, rounding out the bumper. It doesn’t look half bad.

“It gets easier once you understand the relationship between specific paint, specific brushes, and your hands,” she says softly, and she helps him paint another line. “Are you having fun? You look stressed,” she teases, and he makes it a point to relax his face.

“I’m having a lot of fun,” he says, looking down at her; they make eye contact for a long moment, and she leans a little closer, and he leans a little closer, and then he accidentally dabs a blob of blue onto the canvas. He pulls back, grimaces, deflates. “I made a mistake. You can’t erase paint, right?” She laughs softly, takes the brush from his hand.

“No, you can’t erase paint, but as Mr. Ross would say, ‘There are no mistakes, only happy accidents.’” She gets her fingers close to the tip of the brush, makes a few quick movements, then grabs another brush, dips it in green. When she pulls back, there is a little blue flower growing out of a patch of grass where his blob used to be. He exhales, a little amazed.

“If only the mistakes we make in life were that easy to fix,” he says, and she nods.

“Yeah, that would be nice, but a lot of the time we find a way to turn them into beautiful things eventually. Are you willing to give it another shot?” He says yes, and she guides his hand for a while, then just hovers near it, then just instructs him on what to do. It’s dark before their painting is finished, and she carries it inside to dry, then takes him to the kitchen sink to scrub the paint off of his arm.

“Thanks for having me over; I had a really good time,” he murmurs as she dries his clean skin. She looks up, smiles softly, nods her head.

“I had a really good time too. I’m glad you came over; you’re welcome to join me any time.”

He says goodbye, heads home, looks at his stack of work with a groan, and brews a pot of coffee. He’s in for a long night, but he wouldn’t change his evening for anything. Life is much the same for the next few weeks: school and work, Jack’s art class at the studio a couple times a week, painting on the balcony on the weekend, with and without Jack. When Jack joins them for the first time, she pulls out a big box of markers and thick sheets of paper and he draws elaborate scenes while they talk and paint together. When Aaron makes mistakes, she’s never upset, just turns them into perfect little details that end up being his favorite parts of the paintings.

“What ever happened with your ‘Beauty in the Ordinary’ series?” he asks one evening while they’re painting some ocean waves. “Did I cause you enough trouble with the car to give up?” She looks down at the ground, looks a little shy, then shakes her head and smiles.

“No, you didn’t make me want to give up. I’ve been working on it at the studio. You’ll see it when it’s all done, I plan to hang them there.”

“Looking forward to it,” he tells her, and then Jack tugs on her shorts, shows them the picture he drew of the ocean, too.

Later that week, the team takes a case, and on the day he’s set to come home, Jessica drops Jack off at the studio with the plan that Aaron will pick him up when his flight lands. Due to some weather between where the team is and home, they get a little delayed; he doesn’t want to make Jessica head back out that way almost immediately after dropping him off, but he’s not sure who else he could ask to pick Jack up. It’s almost a stupid length of time before it dawns on him to call the studio.

“Life in Color, this is Alaina.”

“Alaina, hi, this is Jack’s dad—” He has his whole spiel prepared, but she cuts him off.

“Oh, sure, hang on a sec, she’s right here. It’s Jack’s dad,” she says, but it sounds further away, like she’s trying to cover the receiver. After a moment, his neighbor picks up.

“Aaron, hi. Jack said you were working.”

“Yeah, I was, and I’m supposed to pick him up after class, but our flight was delayed.” He doesn’t know how to ask for help with Jack; even with all the time they’ve been spending together, she still makes him a little nervous. Luckily, he doesn’t have to figure that part out on his own.

“Hey, that’s no problem. If it’s okay with you, I’ll just take him home with me. I’ll order pizza, we’ll draw, and you can just stop by when you’re home and pick him up.” He breathes a sigh of relief, runs a hand over the back of his head.

“That would be perfect. Thank you—I’ll owe you one.”

“You don’t owe me anything. Hanging out with your mini me is reward enough; he’s painting something special for you today, won’t let me see it.” That makes him smile, and he feels so warm at the prospect of picking him up from her bright apartment, seeing his artwork, her smile. After a long, draining day like this one, it’s exactly what he needs.

“I’ll have to remain in suspense until tonight, I guess. Can you let him know I said hi? And thank you, I’ll see you later tonight.”

“Of course. We’ll see you then.”

It’s late, after nine, by the time he makes it home. He doesn’t even take his bags inside, just drops them outside his door and knocks softly on hers. She answers with a smile, ushers him in, asks him if he’d like a drink and gets them each a beer.

Jack is in her room, asleep, so they have a little time to chat; she asks about his flight, his case, and he asks about the studio, and she gets a little shy when it comes to that topic, clears her throat.

“Um. I have Jack’s secret project, if you want to see it. He said I could show you.” He’s not sure why that would make her nervous—at least, until he sees it.

The background is all watercolors, a gradient of rainbow colors starting with pink at the top and ending with a soft purple at the bottom. Over that, in black marker, he’s drawn the three of them, with a big heart around them.

“Tonight’s theme was the thing that makes you the happiest, and he said he’s the happiest when the three of us are on the balcony together. It was… really, really sweet.” She looks up at him, brushes a hand over the crown of her head. “If I’m being honest, that’s when I’m the happiest, too.” He takes the picture from her hands, runs his fingers over it, and smiles, feeling a warm ache in his chest—not like before, not like losing someone he’s never really met, but like finding something he never really planned on.

“That’s when I’m the happiest, too,” he agrees, and when he looks up, she looks determined, like she does when trying to find just the right shade of paint. She takes Jack’s picture out of his hand, sets it on the counter, and then pulls him down by the lapels of his suit, kisses him long and slow. His hands move to her waist, keeping her close, and eventually she pauses for breath, looks at him again, and then wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him some more.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you since the first time I saw you—tall and dark and serious, striding out of the elevator. So intriguing, mysterious,” she breathes when they separate again. “I wanted to know everything about you.”

“Are you kidding?” he asks, huffing a laugh. “I’m boring, but you are so vibrant, so full of life; I felt like you were everything I wasn’t, and I wanted to know you so badly.”

“You know me now; would you like to keep getting to know me?” It’s one of the easiest questions he’s ever been asked; he nods, and she beams, and he lifts her into his arms and carries her to the couch, drapes himself over her while she leans back against the cushions, pulling him closer.

They make out like neither of them have a care in the world—god, how long has it been since he’s made out with someone?—her fingers scraping through his hair, his hands on her bare waist when her shirt rides up, and she’s in the process of pushing his jacket off his shoulders when they hear a sound from the other room that startles them apart. Jack.

“I’ll go check on him,” Aaron says, and when he goes into her room Jack is still snuggled up on her bed sound asleep. It looks like some canvases fell over, though, and he stoops to pick them up, then spots the car they painted together. He turns and she’s right behind him, skids to a stop. “I thought you said these were at the studio?”

“They were,” she says, and she looks nervous again. “But I changed my mind about hanging them there. They felt too personal.” He runs his hand over the car and sees where she’s coming from; this one feels personal to him, too.

“Can I see the rest?” he asks. “Only if you want to show me them.”

“You’re the only one I want to show them to,” she says with a soft smile, and she grabs a few more canvases, carries them into the light of the living room. “Beauty in the ordinary, remember.” He remembers, could never forget.

She turns one over, and it’s a kitchen sink, and in the kitchen sink is an orange plate with a fork resting on it—like the plate she’d given him with the pasta on it. She turns one over and it’s a man’s hand, holding a paintbrush, with pale blue paint on his forearm. The next one is a little herb garden on a balcony; the next one is a view from above, of a sandy haired boy with markers all around him. The last one is an open elevator—ripe with possibilities.

When he looks up at her, she’s got tears in her eyes, and one slips down her cheek.

“So, I think I’ve found my good times.” She smiles through her tears, and he takes her face in his hands and kisses the salt from her lips. “I love you,” she says when he pulls back to wipe her face with his sleeve, and he kisses her softly, again and again, and tells her he loves her, too. The next weekend, Jack is at Jessica’s for a sleepover, and Aaron has been enlisted to help with an art project. He walks next door, knocks lightly, and enters the living room; he is met with a very deep, passionate kiss and a smile, and instructions to help move the furniture out of the way.

“I’m really curious what kind of art requires this much floor space,” he says, shoving her couch back against the wall, and she sinks her teeth into her bottom lip, a move he has been unable to resist since she did it the first time they had sex. She knows it’s a weakness, exploits it, and he loves every minute of it.

“You’ll see, but I promise you’re going to like it.” When they clear the floor, she grabs a large, rolled-up fabric canvas and lays it out in the middle of the room, then drops three bottles of paint—one is yellow (jasmine), one is orange (peach), and one is kind of pink (coral? He’s still not sure.)—onto it. “You can obviously say no if you want, but I wanted something over my bed with the sunset colors, and I found this…” She steps closer to him, runs her hands down his chest, guides him down for a kiss so delicious he loses his train of thought. “It’s sex art; we put the paint on the canvas, and on ourselves, and… you know, go at it. What do you think?”

He thinks he really, really loves art now, even more than he thought possible.

“So we have paint-covered sex and then you just hang it on the wall? Like regular art?”

“Yep, I got the supplies I’ll need to hang it; letting it dry will probably take the longest. I figured we could shower while it’s drying, maybe go for round two, if you’re up for it.” She moves her hand to his waist, slips it inside his shorts, and he pulls her closer to his body. “Are you up for it, Aaron?”

That is an understatement.

Undressing happens extremely fast, because this is really sexy and they’re kind of in a phase where they can’t keep their hands off of each other anyway. She pulls her hair up onto the top of her head to try to minimize the amount of paint in it, and then she pours paint on the canvas, turns around and drizzles some on his back and tells him to lay down.

“I think we should probably change positions often so we get a lot of motion on the canvas; I apologize to your old knees in advance,” she teases, but she soothes the sting of her words by pouring paint on herself and then laying between his legs and licking at his dick. “Do some stuff with your hands; I want to see those big handprints on my wall,” she murmurs, and he groans, puts his palms down in the paint and drags them through it.

She leans up a little, sliding her knees through some yellow paint, sucks him fully, deeply into her mouth for couple of minutes, and then stretches forward and puts an orange hand right in the middle of his chest; the look in her eyes is playful, and he reaches out with one finger, hooks it under her chin, and guides her off and up so they can kiss.

“Your turn,” he says with a smirk, and then he gets her onto her back and ducks between her legs, hopes she doesn’t grab for his hair like she usually does. He rubs his pointed tongue over her clit, waits for the mmm it always elicits, and looks up at her, covers each of her breasts with a paint-covered palm and squeezes. “Leave handprints for me,” he leans up and reminds her, kissing her stomach, and she plants her hands, then presses up and grabs his shoulder, smearing pink down his back. “Oh, you wanted more of that?”

“Don’t tease me, the paint will dry,” she whines, and he spreads her thighs wider with his elbows and licks her pussy quickly, until she’s squirming against the canvas and panting for more. “Come here, come here.”

He’s not ready for that, though, paint or not, wants her to come from this; he takes his hands off of her, dips them in the paint again and presses down, then puts his hands under her ass and brings her closer so he can fuck her with his tongue, quick and deep and slick.

“Aaron, Aaron, god.” She slides her hands down his arms, over his neck, digs her nails in when she comes moaning like music.

While she catches her breath, so gorgeous, she sticks her arms out like she’s making a snow angel, and he catches her while she’s off guard and turns her onto her stomach, puts his hands on the smears of paint he’s already left on her ass, and slides inside.

“Oh my god; I was trying to impress you with this sexy art project, but you’re rocking my world.” She’s breathless, pressing back into his thrusts and painting with her entire body. God, he loves her mind.

“You know I always take your projects very seriously,” he says, leaning forward to whisper in her ear, and she groans, laughs.

“Yes you do. From the side? Let’s lay diagonally.” They shift, and he hooks his chin over her shoulder, kisses her neck and huffs hot against her hair. “Hmm, love it like this,” she sighs, and she reaches back to press her hand to his hip, holding him while he moves inside her. “I love you.”

“Love you. I want you to finish on top of me,” he instructs with a wet kiss to her throat, and she nods against his lips.

“Yeah, next; I’m getting close.” A few more strokes and she gets up onto her knees, lets him lay back, propped up on his arms, and climbs on top of him; she kisses him slow and dirty and then runs her hands over him, sits back on his dick and glides up and down. “You wanna come like this too? I owe you a little world rocking,” she says with a flick of her tongue over his bottom lip, and he nods, squeezes her thigh.

“It’s the least you can do after making me move all the heavy furniture.” She rolls her eyes but kisses his chin, down his throat, and bounces harder on him, all delicious eye contact and moans. “Mmm. Just like that, baby, come for me.”

“Fuck. I will, I will.” She wraps a hand around the back of his neck, kisses him kind of rough and with lots of tongue, and then tips her head back and climaxes, clenches, wrings his orgasm out of him so quickly it’s almost jarring. “Oh, yes Aaron. So good,” she mumbles, and then he lays back, out of breath, and she slides out of his lap and lays beside him, out of breath too.

After a moment, she looks over at him, smiles, and swipes a pink fingertip over his cheek.

“This is the hottest thing I’ve ever done with anyone. I’m glad I got to do it with you.” He rolls on top of her, presses a kiss to her nose, and nods.

“Me too. You know,” he adds after a moment, “my bedroom could use some artwork, too.” She grins, wraps her arms around him and squeezes tight.

“You’re right; I think we should do yours in blue: liberty, that’s dark blue; periwinkle, that’s light blue; maybe steel gray, too.”

“You’re the expert. I’m just your paintbrush.” Her hands smooth up his back, and contentment washes over him like a warm breeze.

“Hmm. I like the sound of that. Want to get cleaned up?”

Cleaning up is almost as fun as making the mess, because they’re well and truly covered, and when the canvas dries, the sunset colors are almost as beautiful as the ones she used the first time he ever saw her paint. Taglist ❤️: @arsonhotchner @mrsh0tchner @ssahotchie @sleepyreaderreads @mintphoenix @meghannnnnn @disgruntledchowchow @azenpal @g-l-pierce @my-rosegold-soul @ssamorganhotchner @heliotropehotch @angelhotchner @qtip-blog @gspenc

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fanfic #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x female reader #hotch x female reader #hotch x reader #ask answered #anon #prompt

[wazzupmrstark]

instead of you [part sixteen]

pairing: [best friend’s brother] tom holland x college!reader

summary: you didn’t expect to spend your summer pretending to be your best friend’s girlfriend- then again, you didn’t expect to fall for your best friend’s brother, either.

warnings: swearing, mentions of alcohol, smut (18+) additional warnings under the cut

word count: 3.1k

series masterlist

smut warnings: female masturbation, porn, mentions of choking

“‘We’? Like, you and me?” you clarified, hoping you had misunderstood.

“Yeah, it’ll only take a second,” Tom assured you.

You looked to Sam for help, but he looked just as lost as you were. “I’ll go try and find a microwave to heat up your leftovers,” he offered and took the container back from you. “I’ll be right back, babe.”

“Okay...”

You watched him shrug past both you and Tom and then disappear into the hallway with a sinking feeling in your chest, knowing he trusted you completely. He had no reason not to, and that’s what consumed you. 

“What do you want?” you muttered, reluctantly stepping to the side to let Tom in. 

He didn’t answer right away, giving you a moment to collect yourself. His eyes followed you around the room as you found your pants and tugged them on. He averted his gaze when he realized you were getting dressed mumbling a “sorry” as he trained his eyes on the carpet. 

You sat on the edge of the bed and looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to explain why he was there. 

“You weren’t there today,” was all he said. 

You blinked. “Yeah?”

“Was it because of me?”

“I wasn’t feeling well.”

Tom’s tongue poked at the inside of his cheek. “Is that all?”

“I had a lot to drink last night,” you reminded him. 

“So you don’t remember anything?”

“I never said that.”

“So it was because of me?”

“I never said that either.” You sighed. “If you’re here to ask me if I told him you kissed me, I didn’t. And you could’ve just texted me to ask.”

“No that’s not why- I don’t have your number anyway.”

“I’m in the trip group chat with your family.”

“Oh, right. I’ll save it to my contacts.”

The tension in the room was palpable. It felt like all of the air had been sucked out and replaced with thick, suffocating silence. Arbitrarily, you wondered who the most famous person in his phone was. He was a Marvel actor, he probably had Simu Liu’s number, right? Who would your contact information be sitting in between? Maybe if you ever forgave him for what he did you could ask him. 

“Is something funny?” The firmness of Tom’s voice cut through your train of thought and brought you back to the present. “Why are you smiling?”

“It doesn’t matter,” you said despondently. “Sam’s gonna be back soon. What did you want?”

“I just wanted to check up on you. Sam said you were sick.”

“Oh, so you wanted to see if I was lying?”

“No! God, why is it so hard to believe that I’m genuinely concerned about you?”

“Because last night you only seemed concerned about yourself.”

Tom pursed his lips and shoved his hands in his pockets, expelling a breath harshly. “Okay, I deserved that.”

You hummed in agreement, and let your eyes trail down the veins of his arms to where they disappeared into his pockets. It looked like he was fiddling with a coin or something small, but you couldn’t tell. 

“Are you feeling better?” he said the last part through gritted teeth.

“Yes, thank you. This chat has helped considerably.”

Tom rolled his eyes. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Well, lucky for you I’m not your problem to deal with. I'm Sam’s.”

He flexed his hand in his pocket and sighed. “Okay, well, I also wanted to apologize again for...” the word kiss seemed to die on his lips, poetic irony at its finest. “Being a dick.” Less poetic. 

He finally fished his hand out of his pocket, holding a delicate piece of paper between his pointer and index fingers. He shifted uncomfortably where he was leaning against the dresser. “We went to the Academic Gallery today. I saw this in the gift shop and thought of you.” He presented you with what turned out to be a postcard, creased down the middle unevenly and smudged with pen ink.

You turned it over to look at the front first, admiring the artwork printed on it. It was a picture of Michelangelo’s David drawn in swoopy black lines and filled in with watercolor paint. Instead of a museum, the statue was in the middle of a garden, the centerpiece among dozens upon dozens of flowers. 

 “Sorry it’s folded,” he mumbled. “It wouldn’t fit in my pocket.”

You flipped it over to read the back only to see iou scribbled in his handwriting and nothing else. You turned it over again to see if you had missed something on the front, but there was nothing.

You looked up at him in confusion. “Iou?” 

“Yeah, you know... I feel really bad about last night, and I don’t really know how to make it up to you so I’m letting you decide.”

“That’s not really how it works.”

“I think that this counts as an exception, since we’re kind of in uncharted territory.”

“Maybe for you. My boyfriend’s brothers make out with me all the time.”

“Fuck you, I didn’t make out with you- it was barely a peck.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “It was more than a peck.”

His cheeks were beginning to grow pink with what you couldn’t tell was either embarrassment or frustration. He cleared his throat awkwardly and changed the subject. “Anyway, if you ever need a favor or anything, just let me know. Think of it as me owing you one.”

“And do I have to give back the postcard when I cash in this ‘favor’?” you asked.

“No, you can keep it.”

“Good, because I was going to keep it anyway.”

He chuckled in spite of himself and shook his head. “Knew you’d like it.”

You flattened the card on your lap, smiling as you tried to iron out the little crease with your fingers. 

“It’s pretty, thank you.”

Tom nodded in acknowledgement and straightened his posture. “I should get going. I just wanted to give you that, and see how you were doing since tomorrow’s a travel day and I know you get a little motion sick sometimes. I didn’t want... whatever you’d come down with to make it worse.”

How did he know that? Had Sam told him? You didn’t have time to ask because he was already walking towards the door. He paused when he reached it and turned his head towards you, hand already on the knob. 

“Good night, y/n.”

“Good night, Tom.”

  He opened the door and let himself out into the hallway, catching it suddenly on his foot as he saw Sam coming off the elevator. Tom held the door for Sam, since his hands were full, and then said goodnight to his brother as he finally left.

“Sorry, I couldn’t find the microwave,” he explained. “I had to ask the night manager and they heated it up in the break room for me.”

“Oh, Sam, you didn’t have to do that! I would’ve eaten it cold.”

“I know you would have, and that’s why I’m not letting you.” You gave him a look, which he ignored and handed you the container of food. “It’s carbonara, it’s one of the things Rome is known for. I couldn’t have you eating it lukewarm.” 

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He ran a hand through his hair and took a seat next to you on the edge of the bed, pulling the ottoman closer to use it as a makeshift table. He watched as you tried the first bite, gauging your reaction. It was something he did whenever he cooked for you, especially if he was trying out a new recipe. He always needed your approval, and valued it above anybody else’s. But he hadn’t even made this, and as his eyes searched your face you found yourself wondering if they were looking for something else. 

“Do you like it?” 

You breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Your paranoia was starting to get the better of you. “It’s delicious,” you assured him. “I’m sad I missed dinner.”

“I’m sad you missed the whole day. Spending time with my family without you was hell.”

“Oh come on, it’s probably good that you got some real family time.”

“It’s real family time when you’re there. It felt like something was missing.” 

You let a small smile slip past your lips despite the guilt that bubbled under the surface. You pushed it down and took another bite of the carbonara. 

“You’re not just saying that to make me feel better, are you? It can’t have all been bad. Tell me about the good stuff. I wanna hear that.”

Sam nodded and pushed his curls back again, grinning like he’d been caught. “Fine, maybe there were some okay moments.”

“And what were they?”

“We went to the Accademia Gallery today. I think you would have really liked it. They had a whole wing of instruments from some of the most famous inventors and musicians from history. They even had pianos from Bartolomeo Cristorfori, the inventor of the piano.”

“Wow,” you said, impressed. “I bet it was beautiful.”

“Of course if it was played, it wouldn’t sound anything like the piano we’re used to hearing today, but I’m sure it would still sound incredible.”

“Even if it hasn’t been tuned in a few hundred years?”

It was his turn to give you a look. “Yes, of course.”

“Sorry.”

“And they had a Strativerius, I don’t even want to know how valuable that thing is. It must cost millions. I took some pictures for you, but I know they won’t compare to the real thing. The lighting in museums never does the art justice.”

He handed his phone to you to scroll through. You swiped the photos, smiling whenever you came across a selfie he’d taken with a statue or painting. You reached the pictures of David and couldn’t help but zoom in on-

“Hey!” Sam yelped and grabbed his phone back from your hands.

“What!”

“Michelangelo would be so ashamed of you! I bet he’s rolling in his grave right now.”

“No way! If anyone appreciated good dick, it was Michelangelo.” 

“Unbelievable.” 

“If you don’t want me to judge these statue’s penises, don’t take pictures of them.”

“I didn’t take pictures of their penises! I took pictures of the whole statue- you’re zooming in on- you know what, nevermind. Arguing with you about this is pointless.”

“Smart boy.”

Sam rolled his eyes at you and put his phone in his back pocket. “Oh yeah, did Tom give you that postcard?”

“He told you about that?” you asked, suddenly panicking. Sam hadn’t said anything about last night so far, but maybe Tom had-

“Yeah, said he wanted to give you an iou for the limoncello last night.”

“What?”

“He said you paid the tab for it since he left his wallet in the room and that he wanted to pay you back for it.”

“Oh. Right.”

Another lie. You had very much not paid for the drinks last night. Tom had. And you knew he had to make an excuse for why he was buying his brother’s girlfriend something from the gift shop, but to add another lie to the ever-growing list made your throat burn with regret. You wouldn’t be able to keep the secret forever, and it was only a matter of time before everything came crashing down around you. 

-

In the morning you took the train from Rome to Naples, and then took a taxi to Sorrento to spend the last bit of your week in Italy by the sea. The atmosphere was much more relaxed than it had been in the busy cities of Rome and Florence. Even though there were still hordes of tourists, they were far more dispersed and less overbearing than you expected. The whole town seemed slowed down, like it had escaped the chokehold of time. 

Sam’s parents took everyone out to lunch by the water and went over the schedule for the next day and a half. 

“So, you’re on your own after dinner tonight, and then tomorrow morning we’re going to take the ferry to Capri for the day before our flight that night,” Nikki explained as she read through the spreadsheet on her phone. 

“There’s an Irish pub down the street from our hotel,” Harry said. “Do you guys want to go after we eat tonight?”

“I’m down,” Sam agreed. 

“Sounds good,” Tom chimed in.

The boys all looked at you for your answer, but you hesitated. Thinking about what happened the last time you drank didn’t make you eager to do it again, and you were already exhausted from travelling.

“I’ll pass.”

“What? Why?” Sam asked, sticking out his bottom lip in a pout.

You leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder with a sigh. “I’m tired, and I’d rather go somewhere Italian... since we’re in Italy.”

Harry shrugged. “Your loss.”

“We’ll have a shot in your honor, babe,” Sam said and pressed a kiss to your temple. 

“Please don’t. Something tells me you’ll have plenty to drink without an extra shot for me.”

“You know us so well.”

After dinner, you walked back to the hotel with the Hollands and said good night to Sam’s parents before parting ways to your separate rooms. Sam went with you to change into clothes for going out while you changed into pajamas. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to go?”

You nodded from where you were on the bed and yawned. Sam didn’t push any further, instead resolving to finish getting ready in silence. He paired his black jeans with a pair of converse and a dark green button up over a black t-shirt. 

He turned to you for approval.

“Fake girlfriend approved?”

“Fake girlfriend approved,” you repeated and gave him a thumbs up. 

“Okay, well I’m headed out,” he announced. 

“Have fun! Don’t kiss any cute girls without me!” 

It was something you always said to each other, but it sounded strange since it was supposed to be coming from his girlfriend. Sam just chuckled and blew you a kiss as he let himself out. 

You heard him greet his brothers outside and then listened to their footsteps fade into the distance before pulling up an incognito window on your phone. It had been weeks since you’d been able to get off and it was killing you. The amount of stress this trip had given you only made it worse. You were wound so tight that you were sure you’d snap soon if you didn’t get some relief. 

And you thought that maybe if you rubbed one out it might help you forget about... the confusing feelings you had for your best friend’s brother. 

Seeing as you had the night to yourself, you figured you might as well take advantage of it. You copied a link from your notes app and pasted the url into the address bar. You didn’t feel like digging through your luggage to find your earbuds so you set the volume low enough for only you to hear. 

The video started playing and you let your hand wander from your side up to your neck, brushing your hand lightly across your collarbone. You traced the curve of your breasts with a finger before squeezing one of them gently, feeling your nipple harden under your palm. You only had one hand to use since the other was holding your phone, but you made do. 

The video was one of your favorites, one you found yourself watching at least once a week. It was one of the few videos of hetero couples you had favorited, and it started with the guy going down on the girl before fucking her...

You admired the muscles on the man’s back, watching intently as they flexed whenever he moved his head. The woman moaned, struggling to keep her legs open while he brought her closer and closer to orgasm. 

You let your hand travel down further until it was sitting at the waistband of your pajama shorts. You knew you had a while before Sam would be back, but you were too impatient to wait. You propped your phone up on a pillow next to you to free your other hand as you started to play with your clit. 

You pictured someone’s head in between your thighs, imagining them moaning against your pussy as they tasted you for the first time. 

The man was taking his pants off now and lining himself up with his partner’s pussy. You tried to follow along, putting yourself in the moment with the couple. You gathered your own wetness on two of your fingers to lubricate them and slid them inside yourself, sighing in relief. Your entire body tensed as it accommodated to the stretch and you gave yourself a few beats before moving your fingers. 

When you finally did, you felt yourself relax and sped up your pace so that it matched the actors on screen.

The angle the video was shot at hid the man’s face and you found yourself wondering what he looked like. If you squinted you could almost picture Tom- no. You tried to shake the thought from your mind, but it was already there. 

Closing your eyes didn’t help either. You just imagined Tom’s fingers sliding in and out of you instead of your own, imagined the veins on his arms becoming more pronounced as he tightened his grip on your thigh. 

“Fuck,” you cursed, knowing you should stop. 

You were too close to stop now, and the pleasure was clouding your judgement. Suddenly the man brought his hand up to the girl’s throat and began to choke her, sending her hurtling into her own orgasm. You moaned accidentally, thinking about Tom’s hand around your throat. You curled your fingers up so that you were hitting your g-spot and whimpered pathetically.

This was wrong. This was bad. Not only were you fantasizing about your best friend’s brother, but you were confusing yourself even further. 

You tried to fight it, at least that’s what you told yourself, but all you could hear were Tom’s moans echoing through the speaker. You pictured the way he’d look on top of you. His eyes would be so dark and he’d be smirking like the cocky asshole he was, chain hanging down in your face- just inviting you to take it into your mouth. It didn’t take long before you felt your orgasm begin to build. The video was still playing in the background, the man still chasing his own high and bringing his partner to her second orgasm, but you’d tuned it out by now. You came around your fingers thinking about Tom’s hips snapping into yours. 

You were fucked.

lmk what you think!! i always appreciate feedback

forever tags: @mischiefmanaged49 @bookingbee @cloverrover @captainbuckyy @perhaps-he-schnapped-blog @awkwardfangirl2014 @the-queen-procrastinator @tastingthestarz @sleepybesson @everythingbooknerd @sunshine96love @bitchymathematician @livingincompletesilence @melsbooktrash @swim-deep-or-die @fizzy828 @spider-slutt @theamuz @nedthegay @astroasethic @stuckonspidey @darlingtholland @sgtbookybarnes @tinyplanet-explorers @mildcockandballtorture @uglypastels @gennyld @devin-marie @r-wooooosh @hell-yeah-peter-parker @itssnowingandimstuckinside @relise-thefury @osteporosis @legendsofwholock @peterunderoos @fuckyeahhomerun @nobelwarriorheroes @delicately-important-trash @thwip-it-real-good @claryfray101 @softholand @tomhollandseverything @cool-ultra-nerd @jillanaholland @dinasaur36 @farfromhaz @hanlons-wp @moon-390 @parkerstylesperalta @httpchrisevans @screeching-student-unknown @almondholland @noisyzineeggsbandit @5sos-microwave @quackson-love @smilealways19 @quackeroos @my-patronus-is-mabel-pines @wolvesofwinter @mukesnugget @mytonycinematicuniverse @itsjusttor @percysmcu @peterquillzsblog @lovewolfspirit @biebsmylife95 @a-disappointing-teen-author @justanotherusername80 @b-buckys @sunkisseddreamerr @hufflepuffprincess24 @princessxcryxbaby @tinyyoungblood @holyfrickfracks @amii-nyc @clara-licht @veryholland @captainamirica @ultrunning @cocoamoonmalfoy @nellbellzz-blog @bookfrog242 @honeymoonlover @nellabellaa @its-the-solar-system @spiitfiires @tomhollandfangirl1 @parkeromanoff @randomstufflol29 @pogueslandia @hollandswife @bunnyweasley23 @determined-overthinker @madz-holland @hi-yekaterina @rinaaa33 

send me an ask to be added/ removed from a taglist

#instead of you #iou #tom holland x reader #tom holland x y/n #tom holland x you #tom holland x bi!reader #tom holland series #tom holland smut

[mickey-henry]

Hey love,

Can you do something with roommate! Bucky surprising you on your birthday and making it special? 🥺💞

hi sky!! this is SO PRECIOUS!! 🥺 I combined this lovely idea with the request for @mostly-marvel-musings for a birthday with bucky so here it is! (also I couldn't wait for headcanon wednesday; I got too excited!) 💖

𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐛𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐬

you weren’t expecting much for your birthday this year. all of your family is too far away and none of your friends were available to hang out. at this rate, you were planning on just cuddling up on the couch with a pizza and your favorite bottle of wine.

however, your roommate bucky believed you deserved all of the hype, so he got to work on planning a special celebration for the two of you.

you groggily shuffle to the bathroom to brush your teeth and wash your face.

you open the bedroom door, surprised by the smells wafting your way. bucky's making breakfast?

you reach the kitchen and finally remember what today is: your birthday.

party decorations are haphazardly set up; he tried his best, but he does not have an eye for interior design

the banner is lopsided, the streamers look a little silly, the balloons are chaotically placed around

the table is set neatly with a matching set of plates, cups, napkins, and cutlery that match your apartment’s aesthetic

his lack of taste is why your shared apartment is covered with succulents, cacti, and your paintings.

it seems that bucky had a secret plan in the works. you wonder how he hid all of this from you; this boy tells you everything.

he tried his best and it warms your heart. this definitely isn’t helping with your secret feelings you’ve been harboring for him since you met.

you turn to the kitchen table to see a wonderful spread of breakfast potatoes, scrambled eggs, delicately placed slices of honeydew and cantaloupe, and pancakes with blueberry smiley faces baked in the middle.

bucky is frantically working in the kitchen wearing only boxers and an apron that says “kiss da cook”

it looks like he’s trying to bake you a cake and is failing miserably; he’s made a mess of his face, his apron, and the kitchen

dishes lay everywhere and somehow flour is on the cabinets? you don’t know how he managed that. bucky’s cat, alpine, is enjoying watching bucky’s crazed state from the top of the refrigerator

“whatcha doin’ there, buckaroo?” you ask as you approach him.

“good mornin’ dove! i’m sorry about the mess, I thought i’d be done before you woke up and clearly I was wrong. whoever said that baking isn’t rocket science is a fucking liar because how the hell did I mess up such a simple recipe?! it has like eight steps—”

“i’m sure it’s going to be wonderful, bucky. I can’t believe you did all of this for me?”

“of course I did, my best girl deserves the world,” he answers sheepishly, running his hand through his messy hair.

his pet names make you fall harder each time he says one. being in love with your handsome roommate is getting exhausting.

“come and eat! I can finish this cake after we eat,” he insists as he pulls a chair out for you. he serves you a plate of food and pours you a cup of coffee before you can insist otherwise.

your coffee is made just the way you like it. your heart flutters—you’ve never told him how you take it, so he must’ve paid attention when you made it in front of him

you take a bite of the pancakes and stifle a moan, “holy shit bucky, this is so good.”

after you eat three plates of food (you couldn’t resist his smile when he offered you more), he runs to grab your present

the wrapping is a bit chaotic, but it gets the job done

he made a handcrafted card out of your craft supplies you leave all around the compartment

he knows how much you love succulents and cacti so he tried to paint them in watercolor

they look more like green blobs but its still the prettiest artwork you’ve ever seen because it’s from the boy you love with all your heart

the message inside makes your heart race

my dove, happy birthday! I hope this is the best one yet. I know you wanted to do more this year, but when we’re done with today, you won’t be missing anyone. I’m so glad that we met and I love living with you. you’re my best friend and I couldn’t imagine my life without you. you’re the best! -your buckaroo

a tear trickles down your cheek as you thank him

he looks at you with eager eyes as you unwrap his gift

it’s a scrapbook filled to the brim with pictures of the two of you, ticket stubs, and mementos from your adventures together

“I knew that these would be important to hold onto,” he murmurs, running a nervous hand behind his head and through his hair.

“bucky, this is so wonderful and special. thank you,” you whisper.

“I wanted it to be special because you’re special,” he says. he takes a deep breath before continuing, “there’s something i’ve been meaning to tell you, dove. you mean the world to me, as you know from what I just gave you, and I would regret it for the rest of my life if I didn’t tell you how I feel. I love you. I’ve loved you since the moment we met and it gets harder to hide it everyday.”

you just stare at him silently, completely shocked.

after an agonizing minute passes, you finally mutter, “you’ve liked me this whole time?”

“uh, yeah, I have.”

you scoff. he looks hurt.

“no, wait! i’m not laughing at you. bucky, i’ve felt the same way this whole time.”

“you have?!”

“yes!!”

“we’re idiots.”

“yeah we are, but you’re my idiot, buckaroo.”

he finally kisses you, so sweetly and passionately. it’s everything you ever dreamed of and the best gift you could’ve asked for.

#bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes reader insert #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes imagines #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes headcanon #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fic #thefanbasewhore #mostly-marvel-musings #mickey henry's headcanons

[jd-loves-fiction]

could you write a soulmate au drabble with agent whiskey or din? thank you <3

🌙 i made the reader female i hope that's alright 🥺 but i really enjoyed this idea :)) also this is a genuinely interesting idea to me that I'd love to expand on if y'all are ever interested on a full one shot or something ❤️

[16:10] "You really ain't gonna make this easy, are you, sweetheart?"

"You're gonna have to try a little harder, cowboy!" You shout back to the man currently shooting at you, clutching the arm one of his bullets managed to graze.

“Just give up, darling!” Agent Whiskey tries again to coax you out of your hiding spot and into his arms.

You don’t answer, instead running out of your hiding spot and hoping that he’s turned away from you. He’s not.

The moment his eyes catch your form running from one cover to another, Whiskey reaches for his lasso, remembering to keep in on the non-lethal setting, per his boss’ order to bring you in alive.

The rope catches your ankle, throwing you off your feet and into the snow covered grow. You immediately try to stand again, which makes Whiskey give out a frustrated groan before he sends you hurling towards a nearby tree, knocking you out instantly. He feels a strange, harsh tug at his heart as he watches your limp body hit the ground.

"I'm sorry, sugar, I know that's gotta hurt." Jack throws you over his shoulder more gently than he usually does to enemies. He can't find a reason for it though.

You wake up what you assume is a few hours later, aching all over and groaning at the excessive amount of lights in your face.

You attempt to move your arms, only to find that they're tied to the chair you're sitting on.

You assume you're about to be interrogated, but the room you sit in would make you think otherwise in a different context.

The room is completely white, all the walls and the ceiling, even the floor. A large reflective window stares back at you. Or at least you think it's a window, could just be a big mirror. There's also a table with a chair in front of you and maybe if you try to knock it over you could-

The door opens and in steps the man who had chased you. You can see it even without turning your head, not wanting to show him how lost you are. But you do feel the need to scoff, purely due to the situation, and not due to something in you, as your heart feels weirdly tight in the man's presence.

He walks slowly towards the vacant chair in front of you, boots clicking against what you assume is something like concrete. You keep your head lowered as he sits, legs spread while he has an arm on top of the chair, clearly meaning to establish some sort of superiority, but you won't have it. This is what you excel at.

The agent looks you over for a moment before taking off his hat and placing it on the table behind himself, exposing his curly brown hair that looks way too soft and his eyes bore into you with such intensity despite they're apparent softness-

"Are you comfortable?"

The question throws you off completely. What the hell?

You glare at the man after getting over your initial shock, figuring out that he's serious.

"Can I get you any--"

"Can you just get to the point?"

Whiskey blinks at your bluntness for a moment, before shaking his head. He looks back at you, meeting the fire in your eyes with the curiosity of his. Your fire wavers at the dept before you.

"Just tryin' to be polite, darling. I'm a gentleman, you see." The way he nods his head as he speaks let's you know he would've been tipping his hat in that moment if he hadn't taken it off.

"A gentleman, huh?" Your voice drips with mischievous intent at first, then with poison as you grow bitter while your back and head keep pounding as a reminder of how you got your ass handed to you. "Not very gentlemanly to hit a woman, is it?"

The unnamed agent leans back, seemingly to get away from the hostility you exude.

"I really am sorry, sugar. I do feel bad for it." Why though?

"But how about we start this again?" He offers amicably before you can comment on the absurdity of an agent being regretful of hitting their target. Woman or otherwise.

"You can call me Agent Whiskey. What can I call you, sweetheart?"

"Cola." The man is once again surprised, but also interested, by your answer. But he nods.

"Alright, Cola, who do you work for?" Jack doesn't expect a straight answer, it just doesn't happen. But you seem determined to surprise him.

"A woman named Poppy. That's all I know, it's all I've been told." You have to admit, that expression does look good on him. The wide eyes, raised brows, slightly parted lips.

"How is that all you know?" Jack swallows thickly as you adjust your position, leg brushing his and lighting a fire beneath his skin that he'd felt before when carrying you back to headquarters. Are you just always hot or-

That question answers itself, he thinks.

"Listen here, Agent," Your voice is silky smooth as you lower your volume, hoping to appear mellow and helpless. You know his type of guy and how they work. You also decide to pointedly ignore the stutter of your heart and the sudden heat on your cheeks at his close proximity when he moves, as expected, closer. "I don't work as one of her goons, or something. I'm a mercenary and I work for myself. So, yeah, that's all I know about my employer."

Regret settled on the pit of your stomach at your own callous tone. What are all these emotions, that feel yours but also distant, disconnected.

"Can you let me go now? I have work to do."

Agent Whiskey leans back once more, crossing his arms and sighing. This was much easier than he had pictured, given how hard you fought back when he attempted to capture you.

But he still needs to get some more answers out of you.

"Let's make a deal, shall we?"

"And why would I do that?" You sigh, rolling your eyes in exasperation.

"You wanna get out of here, right sugar?" He offers, lip curling just slightly into what looks like a cocky smile to you. Your blood still sings at the sight of it. "Plus, we can trade secrets."

Your brows furrow. What secrets could he possibly have that would interest you? Perhaps something negative about Poppy to try and get you to change sides.

"If it's about Poppy, save your breath. Whatever it is, I already know."

"Not quite." Jack comments, southern drawl dripping like honey before he moves his chair closer. You get distracted by his sweet voice before the scrapping of the metal chair breaks you out of your haze and you lean back and away from him. He seems apprehensive because of this, lowering the hand that had reached out to you.

"You ever wonder about that little symbol on your arm?"

You look down at the limb he points at, your upper arm, wrapped in a bandage which is stained red. "You mean the one you shot?"

"I already told you I'm-"

"Doesn't change shit. What are you implying?"

"It's unfinished, isn't it?"

"Why do you say that? Could just be a choice I made." You instantly turn defensive at what you interpret as a know-it-all tone. How can he be so sure he knows literally anything about you?

The irony of the fact that you feel as if you know everything about him, despite truthfully knowing nothing at all, isn't lost on you.

Jack begins shedding his dark blue suit jacket, placing it on the table behind him. He then starts rolling up his sleeve on the same arm as the one of yours he shot. You would've blushed if you weren't so interested in what he has to say.

A dark symbol is revealed on his tan skin, just as seemingly incomplete as yours. The ink shifts slightly, like moving mist, as the agent shuffles closer.

It looks almost like a still wet, watercolor painting. And you know that, on your arm, there's an identical symbol.

But you still motion for Whiskey to at least untie your one arm. He unties both, upon seeing that you had no intention of hitting him, at the moment. Your legs are still tied but that's not what you want to focus on.

You look at the dark ink on your arm, just below the bandage. It's bigger, larger than it's ever been before. And it matches his.

You slowly raise your arm, watching as he does the same. As you do, the symbols complete themselves just as slowly.

Until your palms meet his warm and rough ones and you're sure the images look whole now, but all you can look to is his deep brown eyes.

You feel the pull from before, tugging at your heartstrings and burning up your blood like dynamite, slowly waiting to explode in an outburst of affection you wish to avoid.

Slowly, carefully, as if approaching a wild animal, Jack intertwines his fingers with yours, squeezing in reassurance.

Poppy will be left waiting for your return for a long while.

#agent whiskey x reader #agent whiskey #jack daniels #jack daniels x reader #jack daniels x you #jack daniels x y/n #jack daniels x female reader #agent whiskey x you #agent whiskey x y/n #agent whiskey x female reader #kingsman #statesmen

[the-mighty-jellybean]

Black & Blue

Bruise: an injury appearing as an area of discoloured skin on the body, caused by a blow or impact rupturing underlying blood vessels...

Series Summary:

‘They littered her arms like splashes of watercolor paints, Steve couldn't stop staring, she pulled at the sleeves of her cardigan when she caught him. “I fell.” she muttered, pulling the fabric tight over her fragile body. All Steve wanted to do was pick her up, and put her in a box, like you would a broken bird. He wanted to fix this little bird, but he didn't know how.’

Pairing: Doctor!Steve x Reader, Brock x Reader

Series Warning: This story is going to be quite dark and heavy, and will contain heavy themes of domestic abuse. There will be: Violence and possible Noncon, if you are uncomfortable with any of these themes, please don't read, this book won't be for you.

Part One//  Part Two//   Part Three//  Part Four//  Part Five//  Part Six//  Part Seven//  Part Eight//  Part Nine//  Part Ten//  Part Eleven//   Part Twelve//   Part Thirteen//  Part Fourteen//  Part Fifteen//  Part Sixteen//  Part Seventeen//  Part Eighteen//  Part Nineteen//  Part Twenty//

Part Twenty-One: Returned To Basecamp 

Chapter Warnings: Strong Language 

Word Count: 2.9k

Well, Bruce didn’t quite get the welcome home he was expecting, instead he found an angry Steve, taking heavy sips of beer, on the couch. Whilst Bucky sat outside Steve’s bathroom, trying to get Y/N to open the door, after she had run in there because of Steve’s temper, which had frightened her.

“Please, doll, please come out. He didn’t mean to scare you he was just upset; we all are.” Bucky sat back against the door, when there was still no sound of movement from within the bathroom. When he turned around, he spotted Bruce, who was hobbling into the room, using his cutch that had been given to him by the hospital.

“Hey, bro. What’s going on, it’s like somebody’s died-wait please don’t tell me…” Bruce pointed at the bathroom door, thinking the worst.

“No, no, no, nobody’s died. It’s just…” Bucky dropped his voice, just in case Y/N was listening from behind the door, not wanting to upset her anymore, “…we got a letter from Brock’s lawyer, claiming he wants to take the baby, when it’s born.”

Bruce fell onto Steve’s bed, leaning heavily on his crutch.

“No, surely he can’t. I know he wasn’t found guilty of Y/N’s charges, but aggravated battery, must be a significant charge, for the family court?” Bruce weighed up the pros and cons in his head. A violent charge, must be probable grounds to not allow any kind of visitation, let alone full custody.

“He’s claiming that Y/N is unstable, and that she is incapable of taking care of herself, let alone a child. He’s using her family’s mental health problems as an excuse.” Bucky sighed, standing up from the floor, and perching on the end of Steve’s bed, next to Bruce.

“Shit.” Bruce breathed, shaking his head.

“Anyway, how are you?” Bucky tried to lighten the dark mood that had laid upon the little apartment, and all of its occupants.

“Well, I’m doing a lot better than all of you, clearly. How is Y/N and the baby, has she had a scan yet?” Bruce wanted to get back on topic to what was important. He was okay, compared to everyone else, especially; the poor girl, who he could hear sobbing on the bathroom floor.

“Yeah, they had one today. She’s having a girl.” Bucky flashed him a smile, reaching into his back pocket and taking out the little photograph that had slipped from Y/N’s fingers, when she had run into the bathroom.

“Oh wow, you never get used to how amazing the human body is do you.” Bruce took the scan, staring adoringly at the little baby on the picture.

“No, you really don’t.” Bucky smiled as he looked at the picture again, seeing the curved outline of the baby’s head, attached to the little body, imaging the little girl, running around their feet.

Both the men’s heads snapped up when they heard the click of the bathroom lock, and two little eyes poking out from the bathroom.

“Hey hun, how are you?” Bruce asked her warmly.

Y/N toddled out from the bathroom, wrapping her arms around Bruce’s neck, giving him a big squeeze, which he happily excepted, wrapping one arm around her waist.

“Better now, everyone’s here.” She sighed, pulling back, Bruce’s hand dropping to Y/N’s stomach.

“Wow, you’re getting big now.” Bruce commented, making Bucky and Y/N laugh.

“Mmhm, tell me about it. Can’t fit in my jeans anymore.” Y/N rolled her hands over her bump, little kicks and punches being landed underneath, “Where’s Steve?”

“In the living room, do you want me to go get him?” Bucky asked softly.

“Yes, please.” Y/N agreed, sitting on Bruce’s other side, pulling her arms around herself.

“Okay.” Bucky nodded, leaving to go and get the miserable blonde.

“Oi, asshole. Your girl needs you to be calm and collected, and supportive. Think you can manage that, because if you can’t then tell me now, so I know to keep you away from her.” Bucky scolded Steve, deeply unimpressed by the way he handled the whole situation. The shattered mirror shards still laying discarded on the carpeted floors.

“No, I’m calm now.” Steve replied, shortly; standing from the couch, he moved past Bucky, and poked his head into the bedroom.

Steve smirked, when he saw Bruce, showing Y/N his scars on his shoulder and head.

“He really did a number on you didn’t he.” Y/N frowned, the pit of guilt forming in her gut.

“None of it is your fault, honey.” Bruce wraps his arm around Y/N’s shoulder.

“Yeah, so people I hurt, keep telling me.” Y/N leans into Bruce.

“Because it’s true.” Y/N’s back stiffens, as she slowly turns around to face Steve, who looks like a scolded schoolboy, coming home to tell his mom he got detention.

“Can you give us a minute, Bruce. Sorry to make you get up.” Steve apologises, as the man slowly pulls himself up, hobbling towards the door, but not before stopping to whisper in Steve’s ear.

Y/N can’t hear what he was saying, instead she chooses to fiddle with her fingers, unaware Steve was now walking towards her, until the bed dipped next to her, and the man next to her gave a heavy sigh.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I shouldn’t have reacted like that; I shouldn’t have scared you.” Steve begins his long thought out apology, he couldn’t bring himself to look at Y/N’s face, the tear tracks down her cheek, were too painful to look at, knowing he had been the cause of them.

“I know you didn’t mean to. You were just angry, like I am.” Y/N took Steve’s hand, rubbing her thumb along the back on his bloodied knuckles.

“He’s not going to lay eyes on this precious baby, let alone take her from us. I promise you, my love.” Steve captures Y/N’s fingers that were running up and down his arm, kissing the soft skin.

“I believe you.” Y/N looked at him for the first time, his blue eyes followed the trail of salty streaks down her cheeks. The look in his eyes was a mixture of sorrow, for what he had caused his love, and determination to keep his family together.

“Are you sure you forgive me?” Steve looks at his lap, when his eyes meet Y/N’s and he’s reminded of the Bambi like, look of horror Y/N gave him when he began to raise his voice, and smash anything breakable in his sight.

“Yes, Steve I forgive you.” Y/N grabbed the sides of Steve’s face, pulling his lips, flush against his. Steve smiled into the kiss, gladly guiding their lips, as he continued to savour the taste of her lips.

“Good, because Bruce said he would shove that crutch up my ass if you didn’t.” Steve joked breaking the kiss.

~~~~

“How much is your fee?”

That was the first question she asked Shuri, as she joined Y/N and Steve at the coffee shop on the outskirt of Brooklyn.

“I owe you, Y/N. I owe you so much. I’m so sorry for failing you.” Shuri grabbed Y/N’s hand, the way she clenched Y/N’s hand, was almost bone crushing, and Y/N had to regretfully and as respectfully as she could, detach her from her hand.

“It wasn’t your fault, Shuri. He’s a cunning bastard, always has been.” Y/N patted Shuri’s arm, once she had finally taken her hand back.

“I should have fought harder; I should have found more witnesses. Hell, I should have dragged Parker there myself.” Shuri continued to ramble, Y/N eyed Steve, who was smirking.

“Shuri, none of us could have predicted what would have happened, but what we need to do now, is work out how we’re going to stop Brock from taking my-our baby.” Y/N took Steve’s hand. Steve gripped Y/N’s hand, his chest swelling when Y/N used that pronoun of ‘our’.

“Of course,” Shuri sat back, grabbing her laptop from her bag immediately bashing the keys, bringing up various documents:

“We already have an advantage, with him receiving a suspended sentence, and being charged with Aggravated Battery. That marks up his record, do you have any previous?”

“No, my record is clean, not even a parking ticket, I can’t drive.” Y/N laughs, shrugging.

“Excellent, what about career, what do you do for a living? Brock’s a lawyer, which means he has a very stable income.” That was when the smile dropped on Y/N’s face, picking at the decaying couch.

“Y/N?” Shuri pressed on.

“I-er…” Y/N coughed, embarrassed by her lack of drive, “I don’t really have a career, I’ve had lots of different jobs, but nothing permeant.”

Y/N felt ashamed as she admitted to two very well educated and successful individuals, that she in fact did nothing for a living, and was living off of scraps she was given by her parents,

“Okay…are you and Steve still living together, along with Dr Barnes and Dr Banner?” Shuri asked, there was a hint of something in her voice, but Y/N couldn’t quite work out.

“Yes.” Y/N nodded.

“Do you have plans to move into your own home at any point?” Shuri tried to tread carefully, so not to sound at all judgemental.

“Umm, not really.” Y/N looked at Steve, who was gripping he hand tightly.

“Okay, well this might, not be so good. You see; Brock is trying to claim that you are not capable to take care of this baby, by the looks of the letter, he’s using the fact you don’t have a stable income or a fixed address as viable excuses.”

“But she does have a fixed income, I make more than enough to provide for both of them, Christ, I’ve been making enough to feed three grown men, the last ten years, I can take care of them.” Steve defended.

“That may be true, but the court will also see that Y/N does not have a permanent residence-“

“She lives with me; my home is more than adequate.” Steve’s voice was rising, and it was making Y/N cower, as his tone harshened. Steve noticed the way that Y/N whimpered and took a deep breath.

“Look all I’m saying, is that I can take care of her and the baby. They have a home, with three doctors, she couldn’t be in safer hands.” Steve tried to reason.

“I know, Steve. If I were the judge, I would throw Brock’s claim out, and him in a jail cell, but I’m not, and we can’t. We’re going to have to think of some other strategies. However, as much as I hate to say this, but biologically and legally, you don’t have a right over that baby, Steve.” Steve felt like the wind had been knocked from his chest; he knew in his mind that the baby wasn’t his, but to have someone say that to him, nearly broke the poor man.

“I understand that. But as long as there is breath in my body, that baby is ours.”

~~~~

“Sweetheart, try and sit still.” Steve pleaded, when Y/N turned and wriggled around once again in his lap, during their movie marathon.

“I’m sorry, my mind’s just somewhere else tonight.” Y/N sighed, leaning back onto Steve’s chest, his arms circling her waist.

“I know, I get it. Mine too, wanna talk?” Steve turned Y/N around so that she was straddling his waist, her hands going to the neck of his shirt, rolling the cotton between her fingertips.

“I can’t stop thinking about what Shuri said, and about how I’m too stupid to get a job, and now I might lose the one good thing to come out of that shitshow of a relationship.”

It wasn’t that Y/N didn’t have any ambition to find a job, she was desperate to be independent, she just couldn’t find anything that she enjoyed enough to stick with. Y/N enjoyed the few weeks that she spent working in her mom’s salon, she liked the frequency of regulars, the catch ups with the elderly customers, and playing with all the cool hair dyes, when the young customers came to visit. There were times Y/N thought about setting up her own salon in Brooklyn, but she didn’t have the funds to do that, and with her now being five months pregnant, the chances of her requiring all the licensing and building permits were unlikely.

“You’re not stupid, sweetheart.” Steve spoke softly, moving a strand of her hair behind her ear.

“Compared to you, Mr Doctor, I’m not exactly Brainiac of the week.” Y/N half-heartedly laughed, but her weak smile dropped when she noticed that Steve didn’t find her comment funny.

“Please stop talking like this, bubba. You mean everything to me, sweetie, everything. I don’t care that you didn’t go to college, I don’t care that you haven’t got a permanent job, as long as I have you in my arms, and my life, then that’s all that matters. We can look for a place together, maybe if we get ourselves a place, then the court will see that I can take care of you just fine.” Steve’s fingers move under Y/N’s shirt, dancing along her stretched skin.

“Are you asking me to move in with you?” Y/N quirked her eyebrow.

“I’m asking if you want to live with just me, not the band of misfits that follow me?” Steve chirped, stroking along Y/N’s neck, his thumb rubbing over her throat.

“I think I can help with that.” Bruce’s voice made Y/N and Steve jump, as they twist their heads to see Bruce leaning in the door frame of his bedroom.

“Bruce, how long have you been stood there, you pervert?” Steve jokes, considering the way Y/N was straddling Steve’s waist.

“Long enough, sicko.” Bruce shuffles to the couch, Y/N climbed off of Steve’s lap, Steve sitting up, allowing Bruce some room to perch on the couch.

“What did you mean you could help us out?” Y/N asked, looking at Bruce, who cleared his throat, leaning forward resting his elbows on his knees.

“The settlement money that I was given, by Brock.” Y/N’s eyes widen when she realised what Bruce was alluding too.

“No, Bruce we couldn’t take your money. Besides you’ll need it, until you can get back to work.” Y/N shook her head, completely ruling out Bruce’s suggestion.

“I don’t need it, Y/N. I’m being paid by the hospital for compassionate leave, it’s why we have insurance, the best thing I could do is go on holiday with it. I’d rather you used it to create a new life with Steve and that baby.” Bruce rants, Y/N looks to Steve, she didn’t know what to say. Bruce was offering Steve and Y/N $25,000, that would be more than enough for a deposit on an apartment in New York.

“Bruce, we couldn’t-“

“Steve, I’m not taking no for an answer, take the money or, I’ll make you.” Bruce threatened, he smirked, but the glint in his eyes, was one of the upmost seriousness.

“Thank you, Bruce. Thank you so much.” Y/N threw her arms around Bruce, he happily excepted them, pulling her tightly to him, mindful of the bump.

“You’re more than welcome.” Bruce whispered, resting his chin on her shoulder, reaching his hand out to Steve, which he shook.

~~~~~

“I can’t believe Bruce would do that for us.” Y/N was giddy, as she brushed her teeth, Steve had been sitting quietly on the edge of the bed, digging his toes into the carpet.

“Steve…Steve didn’t you think it was generous of him?” Y/N turned with the toothbrush hanging out of her mouth, her mood dropping when she noticed the glum look on Steve’s face.

Rinsing her mouth, and wiping away the excess foam from her mouth, she wondered into the bedroom, kneeling on the floor in front of Steve, resting her folded arms on Steve’s thighs, his hand immediately cupping her head.

“What’s the matter, puppy?” Y/N looked up into Steve’s troubled eyes, trying to read his face.

“It’s all well and good us finding a place together, but…it doesn’t solve the issue…the biological issue, that we’re going to have.” Y/N tilted her head, she didn’t know where this defeatist attitude was now coming from, considering the fact, that up until ten minutes ago, he was near tears of joy, after Bruce’s revelation.

“What are you talking about, so far you have been the greatest father this baby could ask for, regardless of DNA.” Y/N cupped Steve’s face, pulling his lips towards her, and giving him a light kiss.

“I know. I already adore this, little ladybug, and she’s not even here yet. But the court will see that Brock is the biological father, giving him an advantage over us.” Steve sighed, pushing his forehead into Y/N’s.

“Your name will be the one on the birth certificate, I’m going to give all parental rights to you.” Y/N promised.

“Sweetheart, that won’t matter if Brock gets his way, I don’t have any legal power in this situation.” Steve concluded, making Y/N eyes swell with tears.

“How, how can I give you the rights that you deserve?” Y/N begged, she didn’t know who she was begging, but she was on her knees, looking for help.

“I don’t know, bubba…unless…” Steve’s brow furrowed, as he sat deep in thought.

“What, what is it?” Y/N asked him frantically.

“Unless you marry me?” Y/N laughed shaking her head, falling back onto her bum, and laying her hands down flat behind her.

“Shouldn’t you be the one on your knees?” Y/N jested, looking down, still shaking her head in disapproval.

“This isn’t a joke, Y/N.” Y/N’s smile disappeared, and she slowly peaked up to look at Steve, whose face was stone.

Y/N shuffled backwards, as Steve crawled off the bed, moving onto one of his knees onto the floor.

“Will you marry me?”

A/N: Holy shit, well that was an eventful chapter!!!

Part Twenty-Two//

Taglist:

@this-is-a-chilis-drive-thru @cutie1365 @saiyanprincesswanie @pasaaloquepasaa @emma-is-a-nerd @traumschiffe @putinovertime @vibraniumdaisies @brownsugur @speechlessxx​ @winchester-wifey​ @buckys-forgotten-plum​ @lou-la-lou​ @candy-and-writing​ @marvelinsanity​

#steve rogers #steve x reader #steve fic #steve angst #brock rumlow x reader #brock rumlow #dark fic #dark steve fic #dark marvel #marvel fanfiction #marvel movies #doctor!steve #doctor!steve x reader #reader insert #domestic abuse #adult themes

[stillpartofthisworld]

Juno Steel and the Deal with The Devil-NanoWrimo 11/02

Juno knows this is a bad idea.

He's standing in his kitchen, staring at the countertop. It's a nice countertop-a lovely granite that matches the cupboards. Shame that he got blood all over it.

The blood in question isn't his, for once. It's goat's blood, fresh out of the bag from a butcher across the street. He'd put it in a bowl, and then used one of Benten's old watercolor brushes to draw the appropriate sigils across the surface. The summoning circle he'd drawn looked perfect, mirroring the one he'd seen online.

Now he had to hope that the rest of the plan went as smoothly.

He lights the five candles at the edges and pulls out his phone. He's only a little buzzed tonight, so he can make out the words on his screen easily. They were in Latin, sure, but Sasha had taken Latin in highschool and had forced him and Mick to help her memorize verbs, so it can't be that different.

He sucks in a breath, and begins to chant.

20 minutes and 2 cans of beer later, and Juno feels like an idiot. Of course the stupid, stupid summoning circle didn't work. Why the hell should it? It's not like demons actually exist, and even if they did, why would the come at the beck and call of a Reddit post?

"Fuck," he mutters, and lurches out of the couch. He needs to clean the kitchen before Rita comes to see him tomorrow. Can't have her seeing his slow descent into madness, especially not after-

He hears a knock on the door.

Juno moves towards it. He thinks he might have ordered a pizza when he got home, but the amount of drinks between got home and now are enough to make him uncertain. He fumbles for the lock, and only remembers to check the peephole after the door is swinging open.

The man in front of Juno's door is tall, pale, and most importantly, handsome. He's dressed in a tailored suit, all black save for the blood red cufflinks on both wrists. His silver cross earrings sway in the breeze, glinting as they reflect the streetlights. His face is all angles; sharp cheekbones, slanted eyes and a cocked smile, his lips pulled back far enough to reveal wickedly pointed canines. It's enough to make Juno want to touch him and make sure he's real, that beauty like that could be tangible.

Instead he settles on clearing his throat. "Who are you?" He asks gruffly, and somehow the strangers' smile just gets wider. "I'm not sure what you mean, Juno," he says, and even his voice sounds beautiful, smooth and sauve like liquid mercury. "After all, you're the one who called me."

Juno freezes. Then:

"What."

The man points a long, manicured finger into Juno's apartment, where the kitchen is. Where the summoning circle.

Well, shit.

"What, you mean, you're...the...demon?"

The alleged demon chuckles at his incredulous tone. "What else would I be, dear? It's not everyday random men show up at your doorstep."

"You'd be surprised." the rebuttal comes automatically, and just serves to streach the man's grin even wider. "Aren't demons supposed to show up in the summoning circle? And be all fire and brimstone?"

"Is that what people are saying nowadays?" The stranger sighs, shaking his head. He leans on the door frame, using his height to let his gaze rove lazily across Juno's body. "The summoning circle isn't meant to trap us, dear. It's more of a...calling card. I show up how I like. And as for the 'fire and brimstone', well-" He snaps his fingers, and suddenly there is a small blue flame in between his thumb and index finger. "I could certainly show you," he continues smoothly, "But I assumed that your furniture might be flammable."

What had he gotten himself into?

"Oh, nothing that thousands of other humans haven't gotten themselves into before," the demon replies, and Juno realizes he's been talking out loud. "Might I come in?"

Still reellng, Juno moves out of the way to let the man in. He looks around the space curiously. It's a nice place; Rita was the one who'd shown him the listing, and Benten was the one who'd bought all the furniture. It still felt like it wasn't his apartment at times, like he was the one dirty thing in this clean, crisp home.

The demon, however, fit perfectly into the room. He sits down on the couch, crossing his legs and gingerly placing an empty beer can on the coffee table. "Can I get you something to drink?" Juno asks, and the demon waves him away. "I'm quite alright for now, thank you. Let's get down to business, shall we?" He spreads his hands in front of him dramatically. Sighing, Juno takes a seat opposite of the demon.

"I have to say, I am curious," The demon cups his chin with both his hands. "Why did you summon me, Juno Steel?"

"Well...you know, thinking back on it, it wasn't such good idea." Juno scratches the back of his head sheepishly. "I was sad, and drunk, and honestly I didn't even think it was going to work!"

"Most people don't-"

"And it's not like I have to show up with you tomorrow," He says, getting angry at himself. "I can go with Rita and Ben and just stick to the back of the reception. Drink all I want and get driven home. But it was just...the pictures and the updates and the register- God that fucking register-"

"I'm not sure I follow-"

"So I just had to pretend that I got over him! Putting down a plus one and writing "significant other" like a fucking dumbass. Stupid Juno, stupid-"

"Can you please explain-"

"I need a date for my ex's wedding."

The demon looks at him and blinks once, twice, before- "I beg your pardon?"

Juno pauses, unsure. "You...know what a wedding is, right?"

"Of course I know what a wedding is," the demon snaps, and Juno swears that for a second his dark eyes glow blue. "But is that the only reason you called a demon? To spite an old partner?"

"He was my ex-fiance, if that adds anything." His tone is flat and unbothered; he'd been practicing. "Found out he was cheating on me a week before the wedding, too, the bastard."

The demon looks at him in shock, then with something akin to sympathy. "That...makes a lot more sense."

"Yeah, yeah, so now he's marrying the same asshole who he left me for and had the nerve to invite me, so excuse me for not wanting to look like I'm still pining for him." Juno looks away from the demon in front of him. God, he needed a drink. Hell, he needed a liquor store.

"And...might I ask why you simply didn't...look for a human to go with?" The demon inquires softly, still staring at him. "Go on one of those those...blind dates?" Juno's head snaps back to look at him incredulously. "Have you seen this, buddy?" Juno gestures to his face; the scars around his eyepatch, and the very visibly sunken skin under it. "Ain't no one swiping right on this."

"I think you're quite handsome, actually. In a rugged way." The demon says quietly, and Juno has to laugh. "You're a natural at this boyfriend thing, bud. I almost believed you."

Before he can speak again, Juno cuts in. "Anyway, what's the payment for this again? You want my soul or something?"

"Oh, nothing so barbaric," the demon waves a hand. "We haven't asked for souls for a long time; they don't keep as well as they used to."

Juno decides not to ask about that.

"Rather, we trade in favours," his smile is back, his tone all milk and honey. "I do something for you, you do something for me, and everyone's happy."

"Uh-huh.” Like he was about to buy that. "What do you usually ask for?"

"Why ruin the surprise?" His canines peek out again, and Juno briefly wonders how the demon never manages to cut himself on his own smile. "I try not to ask for the same things twice; gets awfully boring when you do. It doesn't have to be right away, either; I could ask you years down the line instead."

Juno scowls at that. "I like my consequences to be punctual, actually."

"Good thing I'm the one planning the consequence then, hmm?" The man laughs lightly. "For now, dear, all I need is to officially seal our deal." He stands from the sofa, towering over Juno. "I am bound to your service for as long as you require me," he says, bowing slightly. "All I ask is that you give me a name."

"What do you need a name for?"

The demon shrugs. "It's a way of sealing the contract. The old way demanded that we spill the blood of a virgin, if you would prefer." He looks up from his bow, one eyebrow raised. "I'm sure you don't meet the criteria for that, but if you want we could-"

"Fine, fine!" Juno nearly shouts, willing his blood to not enter his cheeks. "You want a name that badly? Why don't you pick one?"

The demon straightens. "Well, I suppose I could think of a few names that might fit..." He taps a long finger to his chin thoughtfully. "How about...Rex Glass? That sounds exciting, doesn't it-"

"Nope. Too weird."

The demon looks at him, shocked. "Too weird?" He chokes out. "Well, I never-"

"Picked a good name before? Clearly. Try again."

The demon sighs. "Well, if you insist. How about... Perseus Shah?"

"Nope."

"Duke Rose?"

"Sounds like someone I'd want to shoot, next."

"How about a Monsieur Dauphin? A little mystery-"

"Is going to get both of us killed, try again."

"Christopher Morales?"

"Well now you just went too plain."

"You're impossible to please, did you know that?"

"So I've been told."

The demon huffs. "Well, then, how about..." His face goes thoughtful for a moment, then nostalgic, then something else altogether that Juno can't quite place. He stays like that for a moment, all softness and memory, before suddenly switching back to a rogueish grin. "I've got one. Peter... Nureyev."

He looks so pleased with himself, it takes all of Juno's willpower to not shoot it down. Because it's actually a good name. Peter Nureyev seems to fit this demon well.

"Nureyev it is, then."

And they shake on it.

#layla writes #the penumbra podcast #juno steel #peter nureyev #nano 2020 #juno steel fanfiction

[jaideite]

Hey!How about bakugo and denki (maybe overhaul???) With an s/o that draws on themselfs all the time? thanks ❤❤

OVERHAUL I SCREAM YES

look at my non creative ass making this using the same excuse 😐 oh well

My first time writing for overhaul and I went a little overboard 00pS probably didn’t write him right but send me feedback if I did 😔👊

lmao I’m probably not doing any of this right pffft— 💀

anyways this is coming out on Christmas so I wanted to let you all know...MERRY CHRISTMAS and for those who don’t celebrate it HAPPY HOLIDAYS :D I love you all and thank you for helping this account grow!! ☺️🥰

BAKUGOU, KAMINARI AND OVERHAUL WITH A S/O WHO DRAWS ON THEMSELVES ALL THE TIME

KATSUKI BAKUGOU

— “Stop drawing on yourself idiot.”

— “Oh my god let me write that on my arm so I won’t forget.”

— he watches while you out of pettiness pull out your crayola markers and start doing some calligraphy on your arm in big warm letters saying “STOP DRAWING ON YOURSELF”

— you decorate it putting them dots all over it and add your hero symbol and smiled at him with “Thank you for the reminder, this is why I like you.” and keep it going

— he always tries to hide your pens and markers

— he would blow them up but he did that once and the ink spilled all over him

— you laughed at him after beating the mess out of him for touching your markers

— “My jiji bought those for me, baka!”

— “Y/N...get off me...your crushing my balls...and let go of my fucking leg—OW!”

— “You crushed my markers you mother—“

— he buys you new markers after patching himself up

— you inspect them with a glare “they aren’t my jiji’s limited edition watercolor markers but they’ll do.”

— he just twitches an eye but keeps it going

— jokes on you she bought them cause your jiji bought them from staples lmaoo

— “When you get sick no one is taking care of your bitch ass.”

— “Oh please my quirk isn’t going to make me sick.”

— “Your what��“

— You explain to him that when you draw on your skin it actually start to move and this is how you can plan out battle moves and he’s just

— “Hah. Lame ass quirk like it’s owner.”

— you know he got his shit rocked for that lmfaoo his stupid ass💀

— he can’t even get irked at you whenever you draw on yourself cause it’s your quirk damnit

— sometimes he likes to draw on you lol

— “Hypocrite.”

— “Shut, the fuck up.”

— you made sure to get your soft bakugou pictures in without him not

— it’s very therapeutic yknow you just sit in a t-shirt while he doodles on you and watches them come to life

— hes actually pretty good at it

— “Yeah shitty lady I’m good at everything.”

— “Apparently not cause if you were you’d be good at shutting the fuck up.”

— “OOP—“

— one time while you were getting ready to hop in the shower you happened to glance down at your calf and see an ‘I love you’ written inside a heart

— of course you took a picture of it

— of course you sent it to him

— of course he denies writing it but you know better

— “That’s not my fucking handwriting.”

DENKI KAMINARI

— look at bakagou i fell in love again UGH

— you guys are so bad omg

— like it’s terrible

— “Babe lets draw dicks on your arm.”

— “Absolutely.”

— “I don’t think I like where this is going.”

— honestly should have been the first warning

— he doesn’t really care about you doing it cause he sticks things into sockets

— you draw on your arm

— potato potato oh well not much y’all can do

— till one day he just gets curious as to why you draw on your arms so much and your just like

— “Kami do you not pay attention?”

— “Huh?”

— “Babe...it’s a part of my quirk.”

— poor pikachu is just 🥴??¿ but you just stare at him and put your quirk into motion

— you think it’s kind of lame but basically your skin is like paper and whatever you draw on it if you wish becomes reality

— he’s still confused until you just draw a detailed apple on your arm in record time and pick it up

— and he watches as it just peels off and becomes real

— and poor boy is shook

— “Here, eat it.”

— and he bites into it and just screams and drops it

— your just like poor apple

— “THATS REAL!”

— “Yep.”

— “Y/N THATS REAL!”

— “I know.”

— “ITS GOOD!”

— “Should have finished it.”

— “Y/N H-HOW—“

— “Kaminari wait—“

— “Y/N I’M WKDKWK—“

— “How the hell did you say that out loud—oh wait shit Kaminari don’t go stupid—“

— after this poor boy is so amazed at you

— “Draw me!”

— “Kaminari I can’t draw living things.”

— he gets so excited over it

— constantly shows off your drawing skills too

— “Look at what Y/N can draw! Isnt it so cool?”

— “Kaminari I love you but please baby stop showing me off.”

— he likes doodling on you lmaoo

— sometimes he draws the weirdest things while other times it’s cheesy pick up lines that you find yourself reading during a lecture

— he tried to make himself AirPods and they came out looking exactly like the drawing he drew

— he cried in the corner like an idiot while you sighed and Yayorozu patted you on the back and handed you a pair

— damn rich kids wksksk

— it isn’t until days later he comes up to you and asks whatever happened to the dicks he drew on your arm

— you just 🥴, pat his head and send him on his way lmfaooo

OVERHAUL

— ugh his name just gives me the shivers I love it

— also this is my first time writing for beak boy so don’t come after me oOP

— y/n are you out of your goddamn mind

— “Absolutely not.”

— “hUh?”

— the first time he catches you he just takes the markers

— he thinks drawing on your skin is a way of you dirtying it and that’s a big no no

— “You are making your skin dirty, and you know how I feel about dirty things.”

— “That’s not what I get when we’re behind the bedroom doors.” you mumble annoyed

— he just shoots you a look but hides them anyways

— you have to be cleaner than Mr. Clean himself you understand?

— and Mr. Clean is very clean there’s a reason why his head is so shiny and his clothes are so white

— so some time passed and you just continue on

— till you’re playing with Eri one day and she has markers and your just like 😶 cause those are your markers

— meaning one of his henchmen gave it to her due to her either being good or not being able to calm her down

— but either way it doesn’t matter because she’s happy and when she sees you her eyes red eyes just shine like rubies

— “Y/N, come draw with me!”

— so happily you give in and you guys are drawing

— until you uncap a marker and smirk

— “Wanna see something cool?”

— and Eri who doesn’t get to see much is absolutely happy with this and agrees immediately

— so you pull off your jacket and start doodling on yourself and as soon as your hand moves away the drawing on your skin practically comes to life

— it runs up your arm and jumps around and dances almost as if it were an animation

— and Eri is just mind blown lmfaooo she’s so curious to how you did it

— and your explain to her that your quirk allows you to animate the drawings on your skin but only on your skin

— it doesn’t matter because she thinks it’s the coolest thing in the world

— so you happily roll your pants up and let her doodle all over your exposed skin and your both having fun watching the animations move

— till Kai walks in on you both and it’s like tires screeching to stop

— at first he sees the markers and then his eyes go from the box to the paper to you laying on the floor with your clothes rolled up and Eri drawing on you

— poor girl is trembling on your leg

— and he’s about to say something when he just stops and watches the deer you drew run across your arm and hop underneath your sleeve

— your just like “oops 😬”

— but he just stares at you with an unreadable expression and just walks out the room and your just 😐 cause your just like “am I in trouble??”

— later when you guys are alone he just pulls up your sleeve and stares at the deer

— and it’s silent as he watches the deer jump and move around like it’s a normal animal

— your scared of what happens next but he just takes his glove off and gently touches where the deer is

— “Kai—“

— “It’s so real...”

— “Uh...yeah...”

— your just silent as his cold fingers brush against the deer until his eyes just move up to you

— “It’s...incredible. Just like you.”

— you turn scarlet at his words and move to pull away but he refuses to let you go, simply admiring the deer in the shadows of your bedroom

— and his touch is absolutely soothing

— so soothing you end up falling asleep looking into his eyes

— later on in the day your doing some cleaning when your sleeve goes up and you see a soft black heart on your shoulder and you smile softly at it

— “I love you too, Kai.”

#bakugou katsuki x reader #overhaul #my hero academia headcanons #my hero academia imagines #my hero academia #boku no hero imagines #boku no hero headcanons #boku no hero academia #chisaki kai #chisaki overhaul #chisaki x reader #mha chisaki #bnha chisaki #kaminari x reader #bnha denki #bnha kaminari #mha kaminari #kaminari headcanons #chisaki headcanons #overhaul headcanons #bakugou headcanons #kaminari imagine #chisaki imagine #mha x reader #bnha x reader

[feverinfeveroutfic]

chapter four: fresh paper and fan clubs

happy 4th of july!!

Esmé took her seat right next to Joey with her face slightly blushed and the collar of her mock turtleneck down a little bit from her chin. She showed him a perky little deep scarlet lipstick laden smile, to which he returned the favor, albeit with a blush on his part. She, Sam, and Marla helped make a full dinner party for the evening, and all the while, Sam caught glimpses of her father speaking to Joey about things, especially with how life went for him up to that point. She wasn't even in the same room and she squirmed a bit at the curt sound of Ruben's voice directed at him.

She would slice up carrots and in between the knife blade on the cutting board, Joey's nervous voice made its way into the kitchen.

“I am, uh—yeah,” he would say, “yeah, I'm a hockey player as well as a musician.”

Then Ruben said something.

“No, well—” Joey cleared his throat. “Well, it's a little bit harder than that 'cause like—like—I would play for hours on end. On the ice, I mean. And it's a different vibe being up on stage, too.”

Then Ruben said something.

“Um—” Joey cleared his throat again. “—I don't think so, no? It's funny, I, um—” He snickered a bit. “I was just talkin' to Sam about that one time and it escalated into something about—”

Sam then poked her head in at the sight of Joey and Ruben opposite each other in the living room. She loudly cleared her throat to grab his attention, and Joey turned towards her.

“Huh?”

“Yes?” Ruben raised his eyebrows at her.

“To Joey,” she started and she shook her head at him.

“Oh, okay,” he breathed out and brought his arms in closer to his little body. Even with his sun kissed skin, he managed to blush a full blush. “It's a little—” He coughed and covered his mouth with one fist. “—a little thing between me and her. So never mind that.”

He let out a long low whistle and he turned his attention back to her, to which she tilted her head at him. He swallowed and ran his fingers through his black curls so she could see his right ear.

He never let the blush go away by the time they sat down for dinner and Sam kept her eye on Esmé, who sat on his other side, all the while. She eyed his tone flat stomach as he leaned back in his chair. There was a lot of food on the table in front of them, and Sam wondered that since he was a hockey player, that he really could eat as much as he said he did. The two of them lay their napkins over their laps in unison and while she wanted to know more about the strange man in junction with her father, Sam thought about Greg and Alex there on the porch.

That was literally the first time she got to see Alex in his element and without a crowd around him. She pictured him alone with her and with nothing more than his guitar with him, all for her. It was a fleeting thought but it proved to be something for her. She thought of his jet black hair and that smooth skin, and of course there was that beautiful stripe: even with the hair dye, she could still see it for herself. She knew that it was still there.

Marla, who was on the other side of the table, picked at her chicken and sipped on her cider in the mean time. To think that she and Charlie had broken up, and now she had to move back to Hell's Kitchen. Sam thought for sure they were a match made in heaven.

“So Sam,” Ruben started, “Joey here told me that you have big news to share.”

Sam flashed a look at Joey, but then again, she should have done it right there upon entering the house when she had the chance.

“I do,” she carefully replied, “another good friend of mine—her name is Aurora, she's not an artist, but she's getting married to my landlord.” Marla then set a hand on her forehead and leaned over the plate. She needed to be alone and away from there.

“Aw, that's wonderful,” Esmé declared, and then she knitted her eyebrows together. “What's his name again?”

“Emile. Emile St. Vitus. Big Southern genteel guy from New Orleans. He just got divorced, too, so it's going to be quite the change.”

“Wow,” Ruben muttered as he brought his glass of cider to his lips, “wow.”

Sam thought about what her mother had said about Joey when they came to the house. There had to be something there, a secret that she never knew about before. It didn't help matters that whenever Joey opened his mouth to say something, Esmé always looked at him with a glow to her face and Ruben returned the favor with a nonchalant expression. There was definitely something there, but in the meantime, Sam kept on thinking about Alex.

The sight of him on the hillside with his shirt off. She never got to touch him but her fingers tingled at the very thought of it. If and when they got to play a string of shows for themselves, he had to do that at some point.

She thought about that piece of rice paper in the bottom of her drawer back home. There was something behind that cool demeanor, something she wanted to know more of.

She lifted her gaze to Marla across the table, still silent and with her elbow rested upon the table as she picked away at her food. They had just broken up, which meant she never had the chance to rid of those feelings within her; Sam also wondered about Charlie, and how he was taking all of it.

All the thoughts stayed on her mind even as she told her parents about her art and how school was faring for her all the way in New York; she dared not tell them about her questioning her place there lest they frown at the notion of her wanting to leave for somewhere else.

She and Joey offered to clear the table, the latter of whom was quick to take up the offer given Esmé's fleeting glimpses and warm little smiles to him: there was a moment in which Sam swore she winked at him when he made a joke about hockey players having strong legs.

She stood before the sink with the rubber gloves on as she scrubbed the dishes and Joey put the food away. She wondered what exactly happened between her and that other man, and if her father knew about it. If he did, he should have said something: it only made sense to her. Once he put away the bottles of salad dressing, Joey stood next to her and right in front of the drainer with his hand on the counter. Her parents were in the next room, right there behind him, and while Marla was telling them something, she knew they had to end it at some point.

“Your mom is quite nice,” he whispered to her. “A little bit too nice, if you ask me.”

“She told me you remind her of a boy she used to know when she and my dad were dating,” she whispered back to him.

“Oh, shit, really?”

“Yeah. She never went any further than that so I don't know anything else.”

“Did you ask her?”

“No. I probably should've, though.”

“Eh, should'a, could'a, would'a.” He set one of the clean dishes onto the counter in front of him. Sam peered past him at the sight of Esmé, who nestled back in a corner of the next room, right within her line of sight. She could very easily look in their direction and check out Joey's slender toned body. She had been acting strangely all evening long: she had never acted like this with Ruben when Sam was growing up, at least not as far as her memory went along.

Indeed, Esmé glanced into their direction and Sam swore she looked on at Joey's curved back and slender shoulders. Careful to make sure her mother couldn't see her, she leaned a bit for a better look past Joey. Esmé's eyes scanned those black curls as they sprawled down his back like the fresh tendrils of a pea plant.

He then raised his eyebrows at her in curiosity.

“What is it?” he asked her, to which he turned around right as Esmé looked away and back to the television. Joey returned to Sam, befuddled.

“Nothing, I—I thought I saw something in there.”

He frowned at her, and that was when she noticed Esmé's glance again. That time she raised an eyebrow at Joey's back and behind. If her mother wasn't going to talk about it then she had to force an answer out of her. There was only one way to do it as she took off the rubber gloves.

“Fuck it, come here, Joey—” She put her hand on the back of Joey's head and she planted her lips onto his. He scrambled a bit out of sheer surprise but she let her lips do the talking for him. He held his arms out before him, perfectly still, and then she set her hands on his chest and groaned in her throat. Just so long as her mother got to see them in the moment. She closed her eyes and relished in the soft silken feeling of his dark lips. Soft and smooth like melted chocolate; unforgettable like venom.

She let go of his lips and he gaped at her, bewildered and with a bit of blush across his tanned skin. She looked past him again, and that time Esmé had gotten up and left the chair; she sighed with relief.

“Whoa,” he breathed out.

“Sorry,” she said as she let him go and ran her tongue over her lips: he tasted like dinner and innocence.

“Sorry?” he chuckled at her. “What for?”

“My mom was looking, Joey—I had to think quickly.”

“Well—” he chuckled and he held his fingers up to his mouth. She noticed his tongue sticking out like that of a dog. “I wanna know where that came from, though.”

“I just did it,” she confessed with a shrug of her shoulders.

“Sam?” Ruben called from the front of the house.

“I'll be right back—”

“I'll be waiting for ya,” Joey promised her with a wink and a lopsided grin. Sam ducked into the living room where Ruben awaited her with a pad of smooth grained, pure white Bristol paper and a small set of watercolor paints.

“Happy late birthday,” he announced to her.

“Aw, thank you, Daddy,” she replied and, once she took the paper for herself, she leaned in for a hug on his part.

“Little sump'n different,” he said, “I figure it's going to be part of your curriculum at some point to work with Bristol, so why not get ahead of the curve?”

“It's so smooth,” she remarked as she ran her hand over the top sheet.

“The guy I spoke to at the store said it's ideal for anything, especially with illustrative type work.” Sam then flashed back on Charlie's comic book at L'Amour. Maybe that could be a new venture for her! She hugged Ruben once again and then she bowed back to her old bedroom to check it out for herself.

It would definitely be something to work with once she returned to New York given she couldn't stop feeling the top side of the paper.

The family turned in at eleven thirty at night: Marla rubbed her eyes out of exhaustion and she trudged into the guest bedroom across the hall from Sam's old bedroom, but Sam herself was still wide awake by the time she gave her parents one last embrace.

“Leave the door open,” Ruben whispered into her ear.

“I mean, it's not like we're gonna do anything ridiculous,” she pointed out with a shrug, “and I'm twenty two now, but yeah, okay. I'll do that.”

“I know you're twenty two now but leave the door open.”

“Okay, okay—” She nodded at him, slightly exasperated. She returned to her bedroom where Joey awaited for her with his jeans unbuttoned and something red in his hand.

“What's this?” she asked him as she left the door wide open and stripped off her top.

“Check it out,” he told her as he lay out a couple of bright red feathers on the bed before him.

“Ooh!”

“It's the very beginning of a little thing I've got planned for a song on the new album,” he said. “Just a li'l hint.”

Sam ran her hands over the edges of the feathers, and the soft plumes kissed her skin. She pictured Joey with the crown of feathers all about his head and she wondered what they could have in store for her and the rest of the world. She lifted her gaze to find him staring back at her with his eyelids hooded and his dark lips turned into a warm, sensual smile. The sight of him made her heart skip a couple of beats, especially since she had no shirt on herself.

“I also have something else,” he continued, and he reached behind him to the nightstand, and he showed her a white T-shirt with the word “Alcoholica” inscribed in bright red lettering over the top.

“What the hell?” she giggled.

“Lars gave me this before we left,” he explained. “I told him I was gonna be spendin' the night here with you and he lent me this. What a name, right?”

“Right! Total inside joke.”

“By the way, speaking of inside jokes—I can't stop thinking about that kiss you gave me earlier,” he confessed in a low voice, and Sam rolled her eyes at the thought.

“Joey, I just did that so my mom would stop staring at your ass,” she scoffed.

“Still. I can't stop thinking about it.”

She raised her head a bit and gave her black hair a slight toss back so he could see her neck. His tongue slithered out like that of a snake. His brown eyes seemed much darker and more brown than before. He wanted something, like a dog waiting for his treat from her. But then she remembered the look on Marla's face when she turned in for the night. Something wasn't right over there across the hall. Any excuse would do.

“Sit tight, I have to talk to Marla about something,” she told him with a raise of her finger.

“I'll be waiting for ya,” he vowed, and he still kept the smirk on his face. Sam bowed out of the room and across the hallway to the guest room with the night light in the bathroom as her guide. Careful not to wake her parents, she knocked on the panel with two knuckles.

“Who is it?” Marla called.

“It's me,” Sam said in a low voice.

“Come on in.”

Sam ducked into the small but cozy guest room with the large queen bed, two nightstands, a bookshelf against the wall, and a small television adjacent to the door. Marla had hunkered down in the bed with her arms upon the covers; her iridescent hair glowed in the soft pale yellow lamp light and her eyes looked puffy as if she had been crying. The television wasn't on, either.

“What's up?” she asked Sam at a fast clip.

“Nothing, I just—needed to get out of that room,” she confessed.

“Why's that?”

“Joey's—trying to make a pass on me.”

“At least he's doing that.” Marla sniffled. “At least someone's hitting on you.”

“Are you okay?”

“No.” Her bottom lip trembled. “No, I'm not okay.”

Sam took a seat at the foot of the bed.

“Do you want to tell me?” she gently coaxed her.

“Charlie told me he has feelings for someone else,” Marla replied in a broken voice, and she stared on at Sam, who gaped at her.

“Me?”

She shook her head.

“No, he didn't say. But—that was enough, though. That was his follow up to the whole 'we shouldn't see each other anymore.'” A tear streamed down her face and she rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. Sam then leaned in with her arms wide open for her, and Marla returned the favor for her. She shuddered and shook under her arms; Sam closed her eyes and held her so close to her body. Her iridescent hair smelled soft and clean as if she had just washed it.

Marla held back and looked up at her with bloodshot eyes.

“Thank you,” she breathed to her.

“It's all I can do,” Sam admitted with a shrug of her shoulders. She sank back down onto the edge of the bed next to her, and Marla folded her arms over her chest.

“Can I get you anything?” Sam offered.

“A drink of water? I have kind of a headache.”

“Yeah, I can do that. I'll be right back.”

She headed out of there and, still using the night light in the bathroom, she made her way into the kitchen for a clean glass and some water out of the fridge. She returned to Marla who then drank it down in four large gulps.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“And if you need anything, Joey and I are right across the hall here,” Sam told her, to which she nodded her head. “Try and get some sleep, Marla. We'll be going home tomorrow.”

She gave her one last hug and then Sam returned to her old bedroom, where Joey had taken off his shirt and crawled under the covers. He lay in the same exact spot as Cliff, except he propped himself up with the pillow. He bowed his head and gazed on at Sam with the darkness over his face. Like the freshest bloom of deadly nightshade.

But Sam slid under the blankets next to him and she lay her head down on the pillow before he could do anything more. The room was silent except for his own steady quiet breathing and the water from the pipes.

“I didn't tell you this but your mom pinched my butt,” he whispered to her.

Sam rolled over onto her side for a better look at his silhouette in the darkness.

“She pinched your butt? When?”

“When you and I were clearing the table. I picked up the platter that had the chicken on it and she brushed past me, and I could feel the slightest pinch right on my right one.”

“Oh, my god. I need to talk to her now. I'm sorry, Joey.”

“No, don't be. It was kinda funny, actually. I wasn't expecting it so it got a giggle out of me.”

Sam paused, and then she thought about it. She couldn't resist a soft laugh herself, and then Joey started laughing at it. But even as she rolled back onto her side and closed her eyes, she knew she had to talk to her mom about it.

They woke up bright and early in time for breakfast, but Marla wanted to get back to the Bay Area in time for their flight.

“Besides, all our things are over there,” she added in a low voice.

Sam bode her parents another goodbye for the time being, and the whole ride back, she was disappointed in the fact she had no time to talk to Esmé about the other man in her life. There was no way she could do it over the phone, either, given the secret was already out for her.

They soon reached the villa in Marin Heights, and Marla gaped at what they saw before them once they pulled up before their cabin. Sam climbed out first, followed by her and Joey, and they glanced about the place.

Kirk and Rebecca's door stood wide open while Testament's windows stood wide open despite the cool overcast feel to everything. Trash was strewn about the driveway: a metal keg had tipped over onto its side and lay there dented before Zetro's cabin. Tom and Gary both lay on the ground: even from a distance, Sam could tell that they had plenty to drink; the former had his arms over his head and the latter had partially taken off his black denim vest so his arms were tied right behind his back. Cables like the ones Sam tripped over at the Stormtroopers of Death show extended across the way in a big mess. A microphone stand lay on the ground, and boxes that held amps were scattered all over the place. Exodus had had a miniature concert but then it all came unraveled; something foul filled the air and Sam knew it wasn't from the marine layer.

Joey glanced about the place with his hands pressed to his hips. He looked on at Tom and Gary before Zetro's cabin and the dented keg, and he shook his head in disgust. Sam grimaced at the thought of him being there with them, lest he be laying there with those two men.

“Oh, my god, they're hammered,” he groaned, and Sam lingered closer to him, but then he strode towards the collapsed makeshift stage.

“What is that smell?” Marla asked as she wrinked her nose.

“It's either dirty socks or clean broccoli,” Joey quipped as he tripped on a cable, but he caught himself before he could face plant into the grass.

“Oh, my god, there are you guys are!” Belinda called from their door step. She hurried over to them, wrapped in a sweater and with her blonde hair tied back behind her head in a taut ponytail.

“Looks like a tornado hit this place, what the hell happened?” Joey demanded.

“You guys should've seen it,” Belinda started. “Alex, Greg, and I were in the room upstairs with the guys from Death Angel and the whole party just raged on out here. Everyone got drunk, and I mean everyone. The bunch of us were like, 'there's no way we're sticking around here', and Greg wanted Alex to stay away from it—you know, his being the young kid and whatnot, and I was just hanging here reading when they came in. I literally thought Zetro was gonna light something on fire with that lighter of his.”

“Did he?” Sam asked her, horrified.

“No, but he was smoking like crazy, though. Smoking like a chimney and around a bunch of booze. I thought he was either gonna light something or fall ass over teakettle right into the keg there on the ground. Zelda ran away from there and I haven't seen her since.”

“You sayin' Zelda's missing?” Joey asked her.

“Maybe. I dunno—she told Zetro she was gonna be back but she hasn't come back since. And yes, she was sober the whole time.”

“So for all we know, Zelda's missing now,” Marla remarked. She fetched up a sigh and closed her eyes, but then Sam noticed something right behind her.

“No, wait, there she is,” she pointed out, and Marla, Belinda, and Joey whirled around; Zelda hurried up the driveway with a flustered look on her face. Her suspenders dangled off of her jeans and a big hole had ripped in the knee of her jeans. She let out a low whistle once she came within earshot.

“Zelda! What the hell happened?” Sam asked her.

“Oh, man, I can't believe this place is actually still standing,” she said in a single breath. “I told Zetro I wasn't comfortable but he was completely wasted, though, so I bolted down the hill here. Spent the night on a park bench and an old German guy walking his dog offered to buy me breakfast. But there was no way I was gonna sleep with him last night. Jesus H. Christ, my band doesn't even party that hard—when we do, it's usually cocktails and a little bit of weed.” She gestured at Belinda. “Really hope you and Greggy and little Mr. Skolnick locked your door last night.”

“We did,” Belinda assured her. “Greg slept in the top bunk and Alex went with Mark and Death Angel into their room, and they promised to keep him away from it all. Andy said they pretty much just locked their door and played cards all night until Alex fell asleep.”

“Greg slept in my bunk?” Sam chuckled, and Belinda's eyes sparkled.

“Yeah, he was moving his butt around the mattress and he was all like 'oh yeah, Sam's been sleeping here, isn't she?' And I was like 'yes!'” Belinda and Sam both laughed at that, and then the former returned to Zelda with a serious look on her face. “But yeah, we all retreated into our homestead once things started getting rowdy. I was waiting for you, though—even from up top, I could see you and I could tell things were tense between you and him.”

Zelda shook her head and pressed her hands to her hips.

“Made a big mistake breaking it off with Louie,” she muttered. “Made a big mistake.”

“Lou was smashed, too,” Belinda continued, “he and Chuck went back into their cabin in a stagger, and I think they both just collapsed in there because I haven't seen them.”

Zelda shook her head again, and Sam dropped her gaze to the ground. On one hand, she was glad that Joey was with her when it all went down the night before. But on the other hand, the whole description of it, and the fact that they hadn't burned the place to the ground told her that there was something afoot there in that scene.

She thought about the Alcoholica shirt that Joey had showed her and suddenly it made sense.

“At least nobody was drinking vodka, though,” Zelda said with a sneer on her face, “that shit's like solvent.”

“Metallica were,” Belinda corrected her. “Kirk and Lars just downed a whole bottle of it between the two of them, and Rebecca was like, 'how can you guys drink that stuff like water?' And that was when I said, 'nope—I'm outta here' and I fetched Greg and Alex.”

“Well, shit,” Marla declared, and she folded her arms across her chest. “Are you packed?”

“I am, yeah. Just been waiting for you guys. I don't know what Charlie's plan is, but I think he's up right now.”

She nibbled on her bottom lip, and then she strode over to the cabin next door. Sam and Joey glanced at each other.

“Need any help?” he offered her.

“Nah, I think I got it.”

Indeed, the ride to the airport was rather quiet between them, as Sam took to the front seat next to Charlie and Marla stayed in the way back section. Anything to keep the tears at bay as they made their flight on time; Marla sat next to her two rows behind him and Frank, and right across the aisle from Belinda and Joey. Sam thought about the mess back there at the villa, and she hoped they all would at least do something to clean it all up. She thought about the times Joey had drank too much. It was too much to think about in and of itself.

“What is with these boys getting so drunk, I don't get it,” she confessed in a low voice.

“My guess is it's part of the lifestyle—to do it and let go of control all the while,” Marla told her with a raise of her eyebrows and a slight shrug. “At least, that's my guess.”

“It just makes me wish they would take better care of themselves, though,” Sam continued. “If drawing Joey and Cliff has taught me anything, it's that men have beautiful bodies, and they need to take care of them.”

Marla rubbed her eyes again, but she had no tears in them. Sam then picked out that copy of Siddhartha and buried her nose into the pages. Marla kept her arms folded over her chest and gazed out that small rectangular window at the fluffy white clouds, and then the high desert and the Rocky Mountains.

The two of them were silent for the rest of the flight back to New York City, and they were still silent until Marla drove her back to the Bronx.

“I always found it odd that you live in the Bronx,” she remarked finally at one point. “I mean, I kinda get it. It's cheap-o, but it's the school of hard knocks up there, though. Once you've settled in, it's hard to get out of there, especially if Frankie and Charlie are anything to go by. You oughta come back down to Hell's Kitchen with me and Bel. It's nicer. Little bit pricey but it's a little more in your wheelhouse, though.”

“Or I can go to Brooklyn with Aurora,” Sam said.

“Brooklyn's great—real funky and there's so much there. But Hell's Kitchen is where it's at—well, for those of us who like art, anyways.”

They fell silent again, and that gave Sam some more time to think. Maybe that was the source of her problems: she need not leave the city altogether, just find a different neighborhood for herself. Within time, they rolled back up to her building and Marla offered to walk her upstairs. Sam fetched the mail before they headed up to her room together; once they were inside, she noticed the red envelope at the very bottom of the stack.

“Ooh, what's that?” Marla asked her, and then she remembered the first one of those she had had when they were still known as Legacy.

“It's my first club letter,” she declared.

“From Testament?”

“From Testament.”

Sam was eager to open the envelope that she set everything down on the couch and put all her attention on that. She unfurled the soft red paper so as to reveal Eric's shaky scrawl of a penmanship.

“Testament—formerly Legacy—are going on tour!” she read aloud. Marla gasped.

“When?” she asked, excited.

“This spring and summer—and with Anthrax, too!” But a small voice in the back of her head said it was going to be trouble, given the whole thing between Joey and them. Then again, she returned to the paper in her hands. “Special guest... to be determined. But oh my god!”

“I think it's gonna be Metal Church,” Marla told her, “because one of the last things Charlie told me before I left was Anthrax wanted to go on tour with Metal Church this year. Does it have dates?”

“Ummm... let's see...” Sam moved her thumb down the surface of the paper. “—yes! A couple here in New York City—wowie, plus back out on the West Coast, including Reno and Vegas.”

“So your parents can see them if they wish,” Marla concluded.

“Yeah, and my mom would be all over Joey's ass the whole entire time, too,” Sam joked. Five pieces of paper the size of postage stamps drifted out from under the club letter.

“What are those?” Marla asked her, and Sam stooped down for them.

“Aw, look at these boys,” she remarked as she showed Marla the little photographs of the five of members of Testament. Alex's photograph was taken some time before the hair dye, and the little pearl of gray hair over his head held up strong and high over his brow. She gazed into his deep eyes, those deep set eyes that she knew she would be able to recognize anywhere even if his hair changed colors all the way. He had missed that big brouhaha from the night before, and she wanted him and Joey both to stay that way as Marla handed her the photographs of Chuck, Eric, Greg, and Louie next.

Young, safe, healthy, and most of all, beautiful.

#fanfic #fanfiction #fever in fever out #fever in fever out fanfic #chapter 4 #book three #a skeleton in the closet #joey belladonna #joey belladonna x oc #anthrax #anthrax fanfic #testament #testament band #testament fanfic #exodus #metallica #long reads #also on ao3 #also on wattpad #writing #text #slow burn #m/f romance

[dat-town]

7 ways to fall in love | ten

~ casually, over texts

You and Ten had mutual friends, so you had heard a lot about him even before meeting him. You were sure you had briefly met at gatherings but with so many people around, you didn't really have the chance to get to know each other. However, when you were thinking about getting a tattoo, one of your best friends directed you to him for advice.

"Maybe he can even draw you a design. He made his own ones," Xuanyi hummed, mindlessly scrolling through her Instagram feed while you were deeply invested in looking up the best tattoo artists in your area. You glanced up from your laptop screen though when you heard your flatmate’s claim.

"Really?" you raised a brow, curious and impressed, you had always appreciated artists a lot.

You had never seen his tattoos though, so Xuanyi quickly looked him up on social media and searched for a pic to show you. Looking at the details of the figure on his lean arm, you were pretty much convinced that it would be a good idea to at least talk to him. You were still a bit worried about getting your skin inked no matter how long time dream of yours it was, so getting an honest opinion from someone who had first-hand experience would have helped your case.

You: hey. not sure you know me, i'm xuanyi's flatmate. she told me to talk to you if i have questions regarding tattoos.

Ten: heya! sure, i remember you. 

Ten: oh~ you want to get a tattoo? cool!

You: yeah, i know what kind i would like to, just not sure where it would be the best and how big, things like that.

It all started like this and before you knew it, you started texting through the night, Ten answering all your worrisome questions about how painful the procedure was, how much it took for the tattoo to heal and not leave a red mark on your skin. He also really liked the idea of your dream tattoo: the traditional Chinese character for strength and the Gladiolus flower representing fighters. You had been through some bad shit in life and this would have been your way of reminding yourself that you had gotten over it, that you had that strength in you, the soul of a fighter, you just needed to believe in that.

When you briefly told Ten about this, he didn't push you to tell more about your past, rather said how cool it was to have such a meaningful tattoo and he recommended a tattoo artist who would do a good job on that in his opinion.  He also sent you lots of reference pictures and photos of different styles of tattoos, so you would know your options and somewhere between all the tattoo talk, you started talking about everything else too.

You told him about university classes that stressed you out and your part-time job that you liked but dreamed of something else. He encouraged you to go for your dreams even if they seemed unreachable and for one, he didn't talk bullshit, being an artist himself, he really needed to put himself out there to make enough money without having side-jobs. When you asked, he even sent you some of his illustrations and photos, and you had to admit that he really had an eye for art.

What's more, he himself was art because oh boy, he was such a sight to behold. His series of selfies started out with playful mirror selfies or just snaps of his cats with him in the background. But probably because you weren't protesting about receiving those, he got more daring, sending you one almost on a daily basis and even though some of those were the literal definition of borderline rude and flirty, you didn't stop him. Why would you have, when deep inside, you enjoyed your conversation so much that you were anticipating his texts almost all the time? Even Xuanyi called you out for texting with Ten 24/7 but still not getting that tattoo. But you were getting there!

You didn't even have to ask, Ten offered to draw you a design and you trusted him enough to let him send that to the tattoo artist with whom you had made an appointment even before you would have seen it. Not to mention, he even willingly volunteered to accompany you to be your emotional support and when you were just getting ready to go, you weren't sure whether you were more nervous because of getting a tattoo or finally meeting him in person. But the moment he stepped into the café where you had agreed to meet, you knew you had nothing to be afraid of. He was still the same casual, funny and supportive guy you had gotten to know over texts in the last few weeks.

"Hey! Are you ready?" he walked up to you with a wide smile on his lips and his blonde locks looked even better on him in real life than on the pictures.

"As ready as I can be," you chuckled, sipping on your sweet treat that you needed in order to work up your courage before letting any needle close to your skin.

"Good because I have something for you," he said, fishing his drawing tablet out of his bag and under the sleeve of his shirt, you could catch a glimpse of his tattoo, too. It looked really nice against his somewhat toned skin.

Originally you just wanted a black and whitel line art kind of tattoo but the digital drawing in front of you took your breath away. The Chinese character had the perfect calligraphic strokes and the Gladiolus flower's pink petals that bloomed around it looked watercolor-like. It was beautiful and elegant, yet the meaning was still deeply engraved into every firm stroke of it.

"It's... gorgeous," you breathed when you looked up, finding Ten's coffee brown eyes on you and he seemed visibly relieved hearing your opinion. “Thank you so much.”

"I'm glad you like it. Now let's get it onto you," he winked at you playfully and you involuntarily let out a chuckle.

You talked all the way up to the tattoo parlor and Ten was really good in taking your mind off worrying. Even when you laid on your front, in a strapless bra, getting inked over your bladebone while holding his hand (no, you did not think it over when you asked him to be there with you). But him murmuring soothing words, telling you stories and caressing your palm gently helped you get over even the most painful shading part and it was one hell of a beginning to your story.

7 ways to fall in love masterlist

#wayv scenarios #wayv imagines #wayv drabbles #ten #boyfriend!ten #stories #series: 7 ways

[heli0s-writes]

IV. The First Taste*

Summary: NSFW Chapter. Pairings: Steve Rogers x Reader A/N: Modern AU, Teacher reader, Dad/Baker Steve… lots of pining, slow burn, romance. Enjoy!

Slow Like Honey Masterpost

Since you kissed Steve Rogers in your classroom on that Thursday afternoon, you’ve kissed him again and again after each meeting. It’s been precisely two more lunch dates, one more dinner date, and one long walk in the park on his day off before he was suddenly called in for an emergency pastry situation. That’s five kisses. Five dates. Five moments you lie in bed and think about while trying desperately not to scream.

You scold yourself every time because a part of you is embarrassed that you’re so—thirsty! But good God, the man is a tall glass of water you want to drown in. It’s been two stupid years since you’ve kissed anyone, and when you’re in bed at night, you hope that it’s not your lack of practice that’s been keeping him from moving forward.

You can’t be that bad, right? … Right?

But it’s always you who initiates, and Steve always keeps it short and sweet. Once, you felt the slightest flick of his tongue against your bottom lip, but then as quickly as he’d done it, he pulled away.

Grumbling, you press your pillow over your face and punch it a couple of times before settling back down into bed. You peer at the back of your hand in the darkness of your room and contemplate on trying it just like you used to when you were a kid. God, this feels stupid.

Tomorrow, you’ll just ask. Because you’re both adults and because he was your… boyfriend. You smother yourself with the pillow again, because that was an even more mortifying thought than making out with your own hand.

 In the morning you go for a jog and make yourself a quick protein and fruit shake breakfast afterward. Then you head to the pool for about an hour before coming back home. Everything is quiet, and the world is peaceful, now that you don’t have the lives of twenty-five children hovering over your every waking moment. You shower and lie down on the couch before turning on a baking show. Looking around, you survey your apartment. It is so damn barren and cream-colored. You’re not strong nor brave enough to go get a bunch of furniture by yourself and start arranging.

Sighing, you settle on an easier task: maybe today you’ll go buy some houseplants.

Steve texts you a picture of a cheesecake around noon as you’re spraying water into the soil of two new succulents and a hanging fern. You show him your fern, placing your hand next to it for size reference. The messages between you are short and brief, since you see each other pretty often.

Summer break unravels you a little bit, but you’ll be damned if you let your new (very adult) boyfriend know. You play video games and browse the internet with a bottle of wine on the weekends, and your summer is just a giant weekend. It’s almost troubling, really, because every summer you have to either find a new hobby to keep yourself entertained.

Last year you took up rock-climbing and baked a lot… but with Steve around, that just seemed like a good way to get laughed at. And of course, the summer before that one was spent moving out of your ex’s apartment and trying to keep your head above water. You shudder at the thought. If it wasn’t for the very fortuitous call back from your current workplace, you would have probably had to move back home or continued spiraling into credit-card debt.

You text Steve, asking him to suggest a new hobby to you.

Right away, he responds and recommends that you join his watercolor session at the bakery:

I’m teaching a two-hour workshop Sunday after we close. The sign up sheet is already full but… it helps knowing the teacher personally doesn’t it? I do a ceramics one in the winter, too!

You blink.

Steve… I can only draw if I invoke the spirit of Other Steve from Blue’s Clues.

Oh perfect, now he’s calling.

“Yes?” You answer. His laughter is ringing on the other line.

“Hey! Blue’s Clues is an excellent show! And, I gotta admit, that guy can really draw.”

You huff and sputter at him, “Stop messin’ with me. Last year I baked a lot but now that you’re here… I really need a new hobby- a doable hobby!”

He chuckles again before his voice grows quieter. Bossa nova plays in the background, and the coffee grinder is buzzing intensely. “Oh honey,” He whispers, and you’re nearly gasping at the way his voice sounds—low, deliberate—like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Come to the workshop, won’t ya? It’s just a beginner’s thing. I think you’ll really like it. For me?”

The quick-draw refusal you were so sure you could unholster on time is nowhere to be found, not with him asking you so sweetly like that. You grouse jokingly and accept, warning him that if he laughs at your unskilled hand, you’ll never take his advice again.

“Me? Laugh at you? Never, sweetheart. I can’t believe you would think that of me.”

“Oh hush, Steven.”

A puff of air escapes him and everything grows quiet. Steve mutters something you can’t quite make out, and then, even louder than before, the coffee grinder screeches. “Everything okay?” You ask, worried.

“Yeah. Um, yeah. Everything’s good.”

You’re suddenly reminded of the way he pulls away after a good night kiss and reach to unholster that gun.

“Hey—uh wha—why do you--- um.” What the hell is the right way to ask this question? Why have our tongues not fought for dominance? Why haven’t both my hands gotten lost in the front of your button-up shirt? Why have you not pressed your hard, broad chest against me?

Maybe you’ve been reading too much Cosmo or Buzzfeed Relationships in your quest to find the right answers.

“Huh?” Steve asks. “What’s that?”

You holster the gun.

“Nothing! Ha! I’ll see you Sunday!”

“Okay, hon… See you then. Don’t be nervous! It’ll be great!”

 You squeeze your eyes shut as you place your phone on the coffee table. Crisis averted. Then, you search for basic video tutorials on watercolors as well as tips for beginning artists on your phone before casting it to the T.V. It’s entirely baffling and when you pick up a pencil and try to draw your new succulent on a nearby notepad, the voice coming through the speaker sternly states that you should “make marks deliberately-- not fiddling about with sketchy, hairy lines like a fuzzy caterpillar!”

What you’ve been working on looks exactly like a fuzzy caterpillar, and your cheeks heat up with embarrassment.

So you try again, erasing furiously before attempting those “deliberate” lines. After nearly fifteen minutes, you sit back and peer at your creations.

“Jesus.”

Your smooth, plump, glossy plant looks like one of those inflatable tubes outside of an auto dealership in the middle of deflating.

You feel deflated, too.

Over your dinner table is a corkboard of photos and postcards, and you walk over to snag Steve’s thank you card from its place in the corner. You study his technique and peer at the delicate forest green line of each stem- just a single, continuous stroke. The petals seem to be merely blobs of color if you’re looking closely, and where the flowers touch, sometimes the pigments bleed over each other.

No, it’s not a perfect thing. But it is gorgeous, still.

So, you try… again. This time, you tear off the deflated succulent drawing and place it on your coffee table in the left corner. Just for good luck, you chant “Steve, Steve, Steve!” as if he’s Beetlejuice, and get to work. Half your brain is thinking of the striped green shirt and oversized crayon, and the other half is thinking of a striped blue shirt and oversized pecs. Either way, both of them could art.

You’ve drawn all year for your students- especially your ESL kids who struggled with codeswitching. Sometimes, when they were unable to find the right word, or you were, you’d draw a picture instead. According to twenty-five first graders, you were an amazing artist, so… what the hell!

Ten minutes later, you tear off the top of the notepad and set it down next to its brother.

The two are stark differences, and your second one is little bit better. You’re almost proud of it—smooth flowing lines, rounded edges, and even a flat plane of the table to ground the pot.

Sitting back, you click around some more, making sure to choose videos that are most helpful to your current ability. Those speed-up painting videos were hella tempting, but you do not want to get lost in the rabbit hole.

Sunday is two days away. At the very least, you were going to be able to draw a damn good succulent.

---

You come in early to help him close before the workshop begins. Cap&Co. closes on Sundays right at six, and the workshop would start half an hour later.

The baristas say hello to you and smile, and you do the same back before you grab a rag and spray a counter down. The leftover pastries and sandwiches are placed on a tray and put in the middle of the room, where the tables and chairs have been pushed together by Steve.

“Snacks!” He smiles, “For the students.”

“Does that make me your student too?” You tease, finding the situation a bit ironic.

He winks at you before hanging up his apron. Between the four of you and the work that’s left, it’s quickly finished in the next ten minutes and the employees leave, wishing you a good night as they go.

Steve lets you choose the music for the night as he brightens the lights, and you randomly scroll through the shop’s selection before picking an old album you used to like as a younger girl—Fiona Apple’s 1996 Tidal. Right away, the singer’s brassy voice catches his attention.

“Who is this?” He asks excitedly, “I think I heard her on the radio the other day!”

You tell him, and he nods along to the music as he sets out sheets of watercolor paper clipped neatly on boards. Then he lays out five travel-sized round palettes already filled with an array of colors. By the time all the paintbrushes are next to each clipboard, people are starting to arrive and Steve is back and forth saying hello and giving hugs. You finish the end of the preparation and fill up heavy mason jars with water and set them at each spot. Then, you take your seat with a cake pop and eagerly and watch him lead the demonstration.

“Thanks for coming, everyone!” He smiles widely at the end of the table. “Good to see some of you again!”

 This must be what your students feel like, you think—you hope, because you are absolutely enthralled with everything that pours from his mouth. Even the way he stumbles over his words fascinates you, and the fact that he is so animated and engaged makes you love it even more.

Steve tells the group that he’ll demonstrate for about twenty-five minutes before everyone can start either trying out various techniques, or if they’ve done it before, can begin on painting whatever they please and he’ll come around to offer help. He suggests the plants for a nice still life, or other knick-knacks around the shop. Some returning students have even brought their own objects and you want to pinch yourself because you could have brought your succulent!

Then, he begins, showing you the right way to load the paintbrush with paint and water, and how water tension is so important to the medium. He shows you the difference between a wet brush and a dry brush. He shows you how to layer the colors. Your brain can hardly keep up with your eyes as they enthusiastically soak up the colors over his paper and the way his wrist moves easily back and forth from the mason jar where he cleans the bristles, to the palette saturated with pigment, to the paper where strokes are being placed.

“Here is a quick and easy way to make a flower.”

Steve loads a fat brush with water and pulls two shades of orange onto the white of the palette. In one swift motion, he streaks a daub of it onto the paper, letting the water gather more heavily on one side.

“We’ll let that dry for just a second— but we can do this for now.” He presses the tip of the brush into a tiny bit of red and makes another mark similar to the first one. The edges of the paint that touches leaks into each other, creating a tiny blossom of red into the first petal.

“This is what will happen when your paint is still wet—but that’s okay!” He makes two more petals—slightly more yellow than the last and touches his finger to the one with the accidental red bloom.

“It’s pretty dry now.” He blows softly on it for good measure and mixes a rosy coral shade into his brush.

The last petal is swept over the first, and the overlapping area where they touch turns into a vibrant shade of ripe orange. Then, quickly, he sticks the wood handle of the brush sideways between his teeth and picks up a smaller brush, wetting it, loading it with a deep purple that’s almost black, and makes a spray of dots in the middle.

“There ya go!” He takes the brush out of his mouth.

A part of you thinks that you are fucked because you may have just fallen in some deep shit here, as you stare at him, grinning widely—so proud of himself and somehow proud of you, too, for listening.

He’s made it seem impossibly easy. An absurdly beautiful blossom from his imagination stares at you from the watercolor pad in his hand as you shakily pick up the brush next to your hand.

“Well… shit, Steve.” You whisper before breaking out into a silly laugh and putting your forehead into your palm at the thought of the herculean task at hand. The woman to your right laughs along with you as she makes scribbly marks and drips globules of blue water onto her paper. Steve beams at you lovingly as you try to imitate the way he made the first petal, steering the water where you want it to go.

It doesn’t.

But you’re determined, damn it. Because one, you really want to impress him, and two, you really need a summer hobby.

The next hour flies by as you paint diligently, occasionally humming along to Fiona Apple’s resonant vocals in the background, chatting with the other painters. They’re all regulars at Cap&Co., and they adore the Rogers family.

Steve circles the room and answers questions, giving pointers, and sometimes putting his hand over yours to lead your paintbrush. He even kisses you on the top of your head when you finish your first flower—a lavender five-petaled ...cephalopod.

The affectionate gesture doesn’t go unnoticed by the others as they smile and quietly ask him questions when they think you’re not listening. Your ears go hot the rest of the night—just as hot as the top of your head because Steve!

Before you know it, it’s time to pack up. The album has already repeated, and it’s back to an early track. No one seems to mind, however, as they take their papers and wave goodbye. You linger in the area, pouring out dirty water and putting the jars back under the sink. Steve puts away the paints, fixes the rest of the tables, and you return to the café area to join him. He’s patting his thighs with his wet hands when you come in, nodding along to the music.

You gaze at the damp spots on his legs, the fabric of his trousers slightly clinging onto his muscles. Quickly, before he sees you, you look away.

“This exact song was on in the car.” He mutters amusedly, “I really like this… she’s got a great voice.”

Steve walks closer to you, stopping a few steps away and leans against the edge of a wooden booth. He crosses his arms and press his lips together, eyelashes fluttering as he smiles.

“What now?” He asks. His voice echoes the same low and deliberate tone you’ve heard before, and you think that the question isn’t really a question at all. But you’re not really sure what to make of it—tonight may have been the most forward he’s ever been.

The lights are dimmed. The piano melody crescendos before the song ends. There’s a pause of silence before the next song begins, and you feel your heart leap as the first few words start.

I lie in an early bed, thinking late thoughts.

“Um…” Your voice cracks.

I do not struggle in your web because it was my aim to get caught. But daddy long-legs, I feel that I’m finally growing weary of waiting to be consumed by you.

Steve cocks his head to the side, also listening—to the music, perhaps to your now uncomfortably loud heartbeat. You run your hand through your hair. The music chimes into a more upbeat tone as the chorus starts.

Give me the first taste. Let it begin. Heaven cannot wait forever.

“Why don’t you ever kiss me first?”

His eyebrows raise briefly before he blinks a couple of times. You tilt your chin to your chest and lace your fingers together, foot tapping anxiously as you stand in wait. “I mean, I think I’m just a little confused. We’ve seen each other for like, two weeks now. I feel like it’s always me who initiates—but tonight you did a little bit more of that. And… I guess we’ve only kissed—Am I bad kisser? Steve? Am I?”

You’re full of rambling, nervous energy but you try your best to play it off. It was such an awkward thing to say out loud, and there was no way you could come out and spit: Why have we not had sex yet?

Steve surges forward and takes your hand in his, “No!” His head his shaking wildly, “You’re a great kisser! The best!”

His blabbering catches you off-guard and the snort of laughter that comes from you is anything but attractive. “Jesus, Steven, that’s too much.”

Steve slaps his palm to his forehead. “Ah… I’m sorry. I think I’m just nervous.”

“About what?” You ask, leaning forward and looking up at him, “Steve, I just… snorted. You can’t be nervous about this. I should be the one who’s nervous! Look at you!”

He takes a step back and puts one hand on his hip, the other reaching forward to signal to you. “Look at me? Look at you!” He gawks.

The two of you stand there, pointing at each other, making scoffing noises of disbelief for a good two minutes before you put up your hand. “Okay. Pause, mister. You look like someone Photoshopped a rugged Ken Doll and then 3-D printed it. Westworld-style. You bake, you paint, you’re a ceramic---ist? Ceramicist? What! Steve!” You throw your hands up in exasperation, “Come on! Your fuckin’ arms!”

He rolls his eyes, “I’m thirty-five and divorced. I sleep four hours a night. I’m a walking disaster.” Then he narrows his eyes at you.

“You’re gorgeous! You’re funny, you’re kind, you’re so sweet…! You’re honest?” He ticks off each adjective using his fingers, “You’re patient? God, Sarah throws half a tantrum and my world collapses. You’re dedicated. You’re---“

“Okay. Stop.” You mutter, cheeks burning hot, “I sleep on the couch next to a bottle of wine and have three pieces of furniture. We’re both disasters.”

Steve laughs and steps forward again, putting his hand over yours. “I just… didn’t want to mess anything up.” He whispers, “I like you so much… and… if we’re… talking about that. I haven’t… been with anyone in … two years. Other than you, I’ve only kissed one person my entire life… So, the question is—am I a bad kisser?”

You giggle as he gives you an apologetic smirk, shaking his head at the way you two have been aggressively complimenting each other. Standing on your tiptoes, you move to nuzzle your nose against his. “You’re a great kisser, Steve. The best.”

Darkness flutters over his eyes briefly before Steve expertly dodges your nose and catches your mouth with his instead. With a half-whimper, half-moan, Steve Rogers grabs the back of your neck in one large, warm hand and your lower back with the other and presses your body flush against his.

Oh.

He’s so tall he has to bend over and you’re so small against him that he’s nearly picking you up. A brief parting of your lips give you a moment to catch your breath, but he’s back again, tongue sliding against yours sweetly, as if asking a silent question.

Is this okay?

With a sigh of pleasure, you ask him to continue in the same, secret language. Your chest his burning hot, tummy quivering with nerves and delight as his hands roam your body. Firm. Strong. Almost desperate. Your own hands rest against his chest before one reaches up and cups his face, trailing your fingertips through his beard.

“D-does it bother you?” He mutters against your mouth before he slides down past your jaw and lands his lips on your neck, “My beard?”

“Mmm—no—” you’re breathless as he kneads his fingers into your waist, moving up to position them just below your breasts, “I like it—mmm-- lots.” You sigh, as his scruff tickles your shoulder, sending tingles all over your body. “I’d like to feel it… elsewhere, too.”

He freezes and pulls away. His hands place you back down on your feet-- back to Earth-- as he swallows hard, looking at you with open, red lips. Steve rolls the bottom one between his teeth and clenches his jaw, eyes half-lidded and lustful. You’re probably a wreck, too, you think as you catch yourself against a table.

“Can we---”

You cut him off. Your purse is already in your hands, keys swinging around your finger.

“God. Yes. I’ll follow you.”

 Steve tugs you from the driver’s seat of your car, hand entwined with yours as he leads you up the walkway and over the step. Once the front door shuts behind him and he’s made sure it’s locked, you’re pressed up against the wall, purse, shoes, keys, clattering onto the hardwood.

“Oh, honey,” he mumbles as he presses his face into your collar, scooping you up into his arms. “Oh, Jesus, sweetheart.”

You’re glad he knows how to navigate his house with his eyes closed because the whole way there, you can’t stop kissing him. Your hands tug his hair and your teeth pinch his bottom lip. Steve responds by growling softly, biting you back, squeezing your thighs before slowly easing you onto his bed.

It’s dark in his room, but you feel the bed dip as he climbs on too. Both your eyes are trying to adjust—trying to find each other. Your hands fumble around until you catch him, his knee. His hands find your stomach. Slowly, he reaches for the hem of your shirt and peels it up over your head. Then he does the same to his own shirt and both of you shimmy out of your pants.

He is hard and hot when your bare skin touches his. Steve lies down on his side to face you, panting slightly as you glide your hand up and down his arm. Oh fuck, it’s been two years and the first man you touch is more like a mythical creature than any man. It should be illegal for someone to feel this good.

Trembling, you touch the hard planes of his torso, the ridges in his abdomen, the swell of his chest taking hard breaths. You shut your eyes and imagine the way he looks right now—breathless and wild. His knee parts your legs easily and one hand descends to feel your center, saturating your underwear.

“Jesus, baby,” Steve sighs into your neck. “You’re makin’ me crazy. This--” He begins to slide his digits up and down, getting the slippery wetness all over his fingers, “Already...”

A shudder rolls through your body upon hearing his words and you arch into his touch, moaning when he rubs your clit in perfect pulsing circles. He moves forward, kissing the tops of your breasts through your bra, nipping at the soft flesh spilling from the cups.

“Steve, you’ll make me come.” You admit, a little shyly even as your hips rock consciously into his hand. You paw at his arms, squeezing the ridges of thick muscles.

The mischievous chuckle that pours from his throat vibrates against your chest. Steve grabs onto your thigh and eases your leg over his hips inching closer and straightening himself until you’re aligned perfectly. He tilts back and guides you against him until your center slides against his bulge.

Just as you find the elastic of his waistband, he jerks away and places himself in-between your legs as he moves you onto your back. You scoot until your head hits the wall, propping yourself up on your elbows, giving him more room at the foot of the bed.

“You wanted to feel this?” Steve caresses your thighs with his cheek, the hairs on his beard tickling your sensitive skin. Your toes curl up reflexively as he moves back and forth, trailing his lips and face all over.

You squeal when the tip of his nose touches your mound, mouth hovering over your soaked panties. His mouth latches on, almost in a bite before he takes them off. Both his hands slide beneath your bottom, squeezing the soft flesh of your ass before he pulls your hips forward. You land on his face, eyes rolling back in ecstasy.  

“Steve,” You gasp, “This is unfair.” Your body jerks with every teasing kiss he presses to your folds. His breath comes out in a smug puff of air that purposefully continues to drive you unbelievably closer to what feels like breaking entirely.

“Baby…” he mutters—right into your cunt, Jesus! You groan at the way his face is nestled there. “Baby---mm— It’s been two years for me.” He whispers, “If I don’t get you off now, in a really good way—it’s not gonna be good at all.”

“Steve—you know—ah! It’s been the same amount of time for me too, right?!”

He ignores you, crawling his hands around onto your hips to keep you from squirming. When you settle finally, he moves one hand to your center, sliding a finger up and down your slippery folds. His mouth latches onto your clit as his finger continues their trail. You fist his hair with both hands at the same time he slips a digit inside.

But he doesn’t move. Other than his tongue’s soft licks on your swollen clit, Steve doesn’t move at all. He happily lets his finger rest inside of you, gathering your juices all over his hand.

You whimper, trying to shimmy against them, anything to create more contact. Its intrusion builds a terrible itch inside of your body, and goddamn it, you want to scratch.

It feels like an eternity passes before he finally lets you have another—adding one more thick finger inside, stretching you as he moves them both around, curling them, pumping them in and out. He sucks enthusiastically on your sensitive bud, fucks you with two fingers almost wildly, and your body responds with fervor. You gasp and moan, arching your back into his hand and face, goosebumps blooming all over your shoulders and down your arms and legs.

“C’mon, that’s it. Thassa good girl. You’re so close. Almost there… Good girl… Good girl.”

With a cry, you come undone, rolling your hips every which way as you reach orgasm on Steve’s hand. His voice continues to praise you, lips kissing your sweat-slicked thighs, beard tickling your sensitive skin.

Instead of pulling away, Steve continues to stroke you with his fingers, slowly prodding at your entrance with a third.

“Just trying to get you ready.” He murmurs, and your heart stills. Ready?

You voice your concern, “What do you mean?”

With a slight chuckle, he sits up, wiping his mouth and parts of his beard with the back of his hand. In the dark, Steve reaches for your arm, guiding you to feel exactly what he’s talking about. A strangled cry escapes your throat as you wrap your fingers around his cock. Hot. Throbbing. Big.

Sweet, sensitive, divorced, baker, artist, ceramicist, father Steve fuckin’ Rogers was packing. And it isn’t until you nervously grip him in both hands do you realize the importance of his last statement.

“Can I get you ready, baby?” He asks again.

For the millionth time that night, your eyes roll back and get lost in your head as you lean against the headboard with a whimper. Steve crawls over on top of you, scoops you up once again in his arms, and places you on his lap. Your legs wrap around his back loosely as he holds you still, previous two fingers pushing inside gently.

You rest your head on his shoulder as your body shakes under his ministrations, already tired and overstimulated. Your hands find their way to grip him, massaging his length tenderly, savoring the temperature of his body, spreading the beaded precum at the tip of his cock up and down his shaft. Steve groans, scissoring his fingers inside of you, spreading your walls.

The third finger meets resistance as you tense up.

“S-sorry,” You whisper, “I’m… I’m pretty nervous…” But you move his hand back and try again. He’s so tender and sweet with you as he turns his head to place kisses on your cheek and ear. It’s a few minutes of this exploration before you feel brave enough to shift and stroke him with determination. Steve takes the message as a confirmation and reaches into the end table for a condom.

It’s slipped on and you follow suit, gasping as Steve guides your hips with one hand, and grips himself with the other. Slowly, he fills you inch by inch until he’s so deep inside you think he could emerge from your throat.

“Oh… my… God!” You cry. There aren’t enough words to describe it— the sweetest sting, an all-encompassing and chilling burn, a mystifying and utter fullness that nearly brings tears to your eyes. You’re afraid to move, to lose this sensation, and afraid to feel what comes next. But you know that you want it.

Steve kisses your lips tenderly, babbling praise, whispering affirmations, soothing the shock that surges up your spine with his warm palm. Slowly, he rocks you back, holding onto your body with one hand, smoothing the hair that falls over your face with the other.

You’re gripping him so tightly it takes some effort to slide even an inch of him out— and there’s many inches of him. Sweat collects on your brow as you grind, dragging against his length, forcing shudders to course all over both your bodies. “Is this okay?” you mutter, delirious, “Steve? You feel so good.”

He flexes within you, grunts into your ear. A dry chuckle escapes him as his hand squeezes your back just a little too hard. He’s holding back, trying to prolong your pleasure, but his own is chasing him down, only a few steps away from pouncing.

You coax it towards him with faster snapping of your hips against his, clawing at his back, nibbling on his ear. “Come on, my love… just a little more.”

With a grunt and a shudder, and a hard kiss to your lips that makes your teeth clack against each other, Steve thrusts one last time as deeply as possible, riding out his orgasm as he pulls your hips against his. The two of you feel welded together, sticky with sweat and so tightly flushed that you’re not sure where he ends and you begin. You body slumps as you drape your arms over his neck. Steve turns his head to kiss your shoulder before making the effort to pull away and clean himself up. He goes into the bathroom first, lying you down and covering you with the blanket.

 When he returns, Steve finds you already dozed off. You palm rests under your cheek as you lie on your side, breathing deeply.

As quietly as he can, he squeezes in beside you, fitting himself against your back. He’s read it somewhere, that falling in love was a little bit like falling asleep. As his eyes slip shut, he feels it happening, just like that quote had said: slowly at first, then… all at once.

In the darkness behind his lids, there is strangely so much light.

Next Chapter

#steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #fanfiction #marvel #mcu #self insert #slow like honey heli0s

[orange-waterfalls]

Favorite Things

Captain Magnum x gender neutral!reader

@rattyships ty for the request!

A/N: YES the title is a quote, YES it's from That One Song™, YES I based this fic off of that idea, leave me alone. Uh... Christmas. Yeah. Captain Magnum seems way too calm in this fic for my own liking, but y'know. Reader can paint even though I am physically unable to, so. There's that. Fluffy. Rated PG because there's one two "hell"s and one "damn" and that's it. It's cheesy and that's why it's great.

Word Count: 2.0k

--

You paced around your cabin, very anxious. Christmas was in three days! What were you supposed to get everyone? You didn't know what anyone liked! Or that they even celebrated…

Well, who says no to a gift, right?

You went over to your secret chest (nobody on that damn ship knew how to share) and opened it up to see how much treasure you had. Not much, but it was there. You could buy a lot in normal markets with these. Maybe you could convince the Captain to take you back home for the holidays?

Well, you never know until you try, right?

But what would you buy? They have quite enough gold and jewels, none of them seem to have any interest in anything, you doubted they'd like something homemade…

This was gonna be difficult.

You sighed and closed your chest, walking over to your door. You opened it to find said Captain standing there, the rest of the crew behind him.

"Hi, Captain," you blinked in surprise. You probably should have been more confused than you were, but this boat was already super weird. He was smiling at you.

"Mornin', first mate!" He greeted. "We found a treasure map on a ship we were lootin'. We're about t' start searchin' fer treasure!"

"Oh. Alright. Gimme a minute," you smiled and closed the door. You sighed and rested your back on the door. Maybe you could find something on the island to give them…?

"Yeah, they'll love a nice flower crown…" You snorted at your own idea. You sighed and grabbed up your stuff, opening your door and walking over to the crew. They were all talking about how they couldn't wait to find more treasure. You rolled your eyes. Don't they have enough of it? You took a head count of how many of them there were. Five… five crewmates, five presents. Captain Magnum noticed you and smiled.

"Thar ye be! I thought ye would lock yourself in yer cabin th' whole day!" He, along with the rest of the crew, laughed. You smiled saltily. "Wha' were ye doin' in thar?" You looked around, trying to come up with something.

"Um… I was… I was…" you looked out onto the horizon for a moment, your eyes softening. The crew looked at you.

"Y/N?" One of them called to you. "Are ye-"

"Painting," you interrupted.

"What?" Magnum asked.

"I was… painting…" you looked back to them. They all stared at you for a minute.

"You… you paint?" One woman asked. You smiled and nodded at her. All of the crewmates looked at each other for a minute.

"Uh… wha' d' ye paint?" The other woman asked. You shrugged.

"Whatever, really. Animals, landscapes, whatever's in my room…" you looked over at Captain Magnum to make sure this was okay. He sighed and plopped himself down on a stair. You smiled and turned back to the group.

--

You explained painting to the crew for 15 minutes. You had no idea they'd be so interested in your hobby. They asked so many questions, some of which you'd somehow never heard. How long had these people been at sea?

Eventually, you looked over to see Captain Magnum looking impatiently at the island the ship landed at 10 minutes ago. You chuckled at him and stood up.

"Captain's getting a bit annoyed, guys. Let's go," the crew complained, but got off of the ship as you walked over to the Captain. He raised an eyebrow at you and you mimicked the action.

"They find ye mighty interestin'," he commented. You smiled.

"Yeah. Not more than you though. I doubt anything could be more interesting than those logs you have for legs." You both looked at each other for a moment before laughing. He stood and you both followed the crew off of the ship.

He lead the way to where the treasure was, the rest of you trailing close behind. One of the crewmates, a boy who looked no older than twenty-one, took your arm. You raised both eyebrows and looked at him.

"So… wha' were ye sayin' about watercolors?" He asked softly. You smiled as the other crew members gathered around you again. You looked up at Captain Magnum, who was smiling at you all. He chuckled and turned back around, continuing to lead the way. You sighed.

"Alright… so watercolor is probably one of the most well-known types of paint…"

--

You had found treasure on the island, and most of the crewmates became interested in that, but the boy who has asked you about watercolors stayed as you explained how people originally made paints from flowers. You saw the curious look in his eyes, and decided what you were gonna get everyone for Christmas.

You were gonna paint for them.

What, you weren't sure. But you sure as hell were gonna paint. Maybe… their favorite animals? Or maybe an object they really liked…

You decided to ask them what they liked.

The woman with the bandana really liked sea creatures. Specifically, narwhals. They were very pretty and could also impale people. She liked that about them. You didn't think she noticed you scribbling everything she said into a small notebook.

The woman with the eyepatch really liked swords. She knew a lot about them; names, origins, uses… it was slightly unnerving, but you couldn't judge.

The boy liked plants. He liked the fact that they were living beings, just like people and animals. Only, they were smaller and couldn't talk. They could, however, feel. And he liked that. You couldn't get over how soft he was…

The man who was first mate before you liked… hats. He liked that they all basically had the same function, but looked so different. You could respect that. Hats were very cool.

The next day, you decided to paint them pictures of their favorite things in their respective color schemes, and added a different color for each background. A blue and white narwhal with a green background, a red and black sword with a navy blue background, a black and orange flower with a dark green background, and a brown and maroon hat with a pastel red background (no, not pink. There's a difference). You spent an entire day painting the pictures. They turned out very well, in your opinion. You just hoped the crew felt the same.

After you were finished with those, you asked Captain Magnum what his favorite thing was. He thought for a moment, stroking his beard.

"Well… I suppose it'd be treasure!" He answered. You knitted your eyebrows together.

"Really? Treasure?" You asked, hoping for something more.

"O' course, treasure! I be a pirate aft all! Wha' would I like if it nah be treasure?" You sighed in slight disappointment. You thought that you would find something new about him but, nope. He loves treasure the most. You nodded and turned around.

"Well, that or ye." You stopped dead in your tracks. Did you hear that right? You slowly turned back towards him. He looked away from you, towards the horizon. The setting sun illuminated his face, tinting it orange, pink, and yellow. He looked like he was ripped right from a movie...

"What was that?" You asked, slightly distracted by how beautiful he looked.

"Treasure be a pirate's fav'rit thin' o' course. But, since ye showed up... I reckon me fav'rit "thin'" be me first mate. Ye." He said nonchalantly. A small smile creeped onto your face. Magnum looked at you, since you hadn't said anything in a while.

"So, you're saying… you love me?" You asked, fishing for compliments. Magnum flushed a bit. It was mostly hidden due to the sun, but you could still see.

"Well… er…" He scratched the back on his head, thinking of how to respond.

"Cause that's what I'm hearing here…"

"Um…"

"Exactly how much do you love me, Captain?" You smirked, leaning on the side of the ship, your cheek in your palm. Magnum finally took a deep breath and looked in your eyes.

"More than all th' treasure in all th' seven seas…" he stated. Your eyes widened as your smirk fell. You felt your face heat up and you turned away from him.

"Well, uh…" you coughed, "I should… get to bed… wanna be up early tomorrow, so…" you shuffled away.

"First Mate Y/N!" He called. You turned back towards him.

"Merry Christmas." He said. You smiled.

"Merry Christmas, Captain."

--

You walked into the deck, the crew already gathered. You figured Magnum must've gotten them. You took a deep breath and walked over, the paintings in your arms. The crew all waved and greeted you. You smiled and stood in front of them.

"So, uh… it's Christmas as you may or may not know…" you explained nervously. "So, um… I decided that, as gifts, I was going to paint for you all… and these were the results." You move forward and pass out all the works you painted. All of the crew seemed happy with their pictures. They showed them to each other and gawked over the detail and bragged about how good they looked. You finally walked up to Magnum, who was steering. You held out a painting to him.

"Wha', fer me?" He raised his eyebrows and took the picture. It was of a red, blue, yellow, and black ship with a sunset in the background and sparkling green and blue waves. The words "a pirate's life for me" were written on the back. He laughed heartily and pulled you into a hug.

"Oh, ye really outdid yourself, mate! 'tis wonderful!" He complimented. You managed to pull yourself out of the hug after a minute or two and handed him an envelope. He looked over at the rest of the crew and, upon seeing that no one else had one, tilted his head a bit.

"It's from her," You explained, pointing. Magnum nodded and looked over at the woman who was showing off her narwhal. She glanced at the Captain and winked as the boy with the flower painting giggled. Magnum plopped down onto a step, but you stayed standing. He opened the envelope to reveal a card. On the inside, it said "This thing you two have is special, more special than anything I could try to get. I can, however, make you realize exactly what you have". You frowned.

"What's that supposed to mean?" You asked. Magnum shrugged and gave you the envelope. You looked inside, seeing something green. You took it out and your eyes widened.

Mistletoe.

Mistletoe?

Where the hell did they find mistletoe?!

You looked at Captain Magnum, who was staring at you. He raised both eyebrows at the plant in your hand. You were holding it between you two accidentally (on purpose).

"We don't 'ave t' if ye don't wants t'..." He told you. You took a deep breath, telling yourself to stop being so weird about it because you knew he loved you back. Besides, the crew had all left to put their gifts in their rooms. You leaned down, since he was sitting, and softly connected your lips. He sat there for a moment, eyes wide, before closing them. You both stayed like that for a few seconds before you pulled away all too soon. His eyes looked hazy as you smiled.

"Merry Christmas." You whispered and walked to your room, leaving Magnum to process what happened.

You entered your room and leaned your back on the door, smiling widely.

"Well, that was the best Christmas present ever…" you mumbled to yourself. You started to giggle as you continued to think about it. You put your hands on your face in embarrassment. It was only a couple seconds, why were you being so weird? You jumped a bit when you heard a gentle knock at your door. You turned around and tilted your head. Who could that be? It was getting late and the crew had already shown their appreciation…

Unless…

You opened the door to reveal, you guessed it, Captain Magnum. He was holding the mistletoe you had left on the deck. You looked at him and raised an eyebrow. He smiled.

"Do ye... Uh... Wanna do that again?" He asked sheepishly. You laughed a bit before smiling up at him.

"Absolutely."

#im more proud of this than i have any right to be #ahwm #ahwm y/n #ahwm captain magnum #ahwm captain #ahwm x reader #captain magnum x reader #captain magnum x male!reader #captain magnum x female!reader #captain magnum x gender neutral!reader #captain magnum x you #captain magnum x y/n #captain magnum markiplier #captain magnum #x reader #x male reader #x female reader #x gender neutral reader #x y/n #x you #markiplier egos x reader

[bellarkefanfiction]

Sick of Losing Soulmates

written by: Josefine / @selflessbellamy

prompt: AU where Bellamy is a soldier and Clarke is a medic? Any time period works. Preferably happy ending! for anonymous

word count: 3728

If anyone had asked eighteen-year-old Clarke Griffin to talk about her dream for the future, she would’ve painted a picture of old Parisian cafés in mesmerizing watercolor; talked about how she’d spent hours there doing art like all the great French painters, eating croissants in her true element. This romanticized ideal is so far from her current reality…

… Which is a warzone. Afghanistan, to be more precise.

While Clarke thinks that wars are always pointless, causing destruction and mayhem when it isn’t necessary, the countless lives that are put on the line still matter, also the non-American ones. So for the past six months, she has spent her days in a military tent on constant watch over the wounded, her hands cracked from the harshness of the hand sanitizer.

As always, you can’t save everyone. The deaths keep her up at night, haunt her, and each time she finds herself wondering why the hell she agreed to take this job if all it does is leave her in pieces. However, she saves people, too. That’s important to remember.

For what it’s worth, today has been less hectic than usual. When the stars come out from their hiding, Clarke Griffin and the pre-med student Maya Vie have only treated two soldiers with minor, non-conflict related injuries. Running a hand through the back of her messy hair, Clarke walks to the tent opening to get some air while it’s chilly; her forehead is still clammy with sweat from the heat.

She tries to think about things back home that make her heart swell, such as her dad’s homemade dinners and a good cup of coffee, but it all seems very distant now — like she’s in another world, or at least in some place where everything she used to care about and value is out of reach. Sensing tears gather in her eyes, Clarke releases a ragged breath.

Wait. What is that?

Quickly, she blinks to chase the blurriness away and some figures take shape in the distance as they move closer and closer. Over her shoulder, she yells to wake Maya up. In this world, there’s no time for naps.

Two minutes later a couple of soldiers burst into their tent, carrying a comrade of theirs on a makeshift stretcher. It’s too dark for Clarke to make out his face, but the unharmed tell her that he’s lost consciousness. Three gunshot wounds to the chest.

He’s losing blood fast.

When the two other soldiers — sergeant Miller and corporal Monroe  — place the wounded man on the makeshift operating table, all of the air is knocked from Clarke’s lungs. Oh god no. The whole world shifts as its axis as he comes into view, and she can barely make out the words. “I need blood, Maya! O positive!”

Fetching the pints and hooking them up for transfusion, the med student looks utterly baffled. Meanwhile, Clarke’s heart pounding against her ribcage, because it’s him. Naturally, he’s gotten older, but age doesn’t fool her — it’s the same freckles, curly hair, and broad shoulders. She’d recognize him anywhere.

Sure enough, as she turns on the lamp so she can stitch him up, the embroidered name tag on his front pocket becomes clear: BLAKE.

“How do you know his blood type, Clarke? We could—“

“I know him, Maya!” she doesn’t mean to yell, but desperation is clawing at her chest, making it difficult for the words to emerge. While she bites her teeth and stitches him up to the best of her ability, a million questions wage war in her mind, the most dominant one being: What in the name of the universe is he doing here?

Sweet, book-loving Bellamy Blake.

In the end, all she can do is wait until the transfusion is done to see if he’ll wake up from this. Her hands are trembling, covered in his blood as she sinks down beside the makeshift table and struggles to catch her breath. Through all the chaos, she barely had time to process the fact that this man she just tried to save is not some heroic stranger.

He was someone who changed her life — someone she never forgot.

“How do you know him? I’m so sorry…” is what Maya says, placing a hand on her shoulder in comfort. Sighing, Clarke glances over at him for a moment. Is it really his blood that’s stuck like grime beneath her fingernails?

While she looks at him, her burdened mind suddenly floods with memories, and somehow they make her smile, if only a little. Then she tells her assistant, “He was my lab partner in high school… I haven’t seen him in six years.”

Maya Vie is no fool. She notices the tears that linger at the corners of her eyes. “But he was more than that, wasn’t he?”

Oh yeah, he was.

Managing a nod, Clarke admits, “I lost my virginity to him. We dated… for a while.”

And still, that’s far from the whole story. Honestly, it’d be too much for her heart to tell it now, given the circumstances. Her lower lip wobbling, Clarke brushes her fingertips across the bronze skin of his forehead, humming a little, which is something he used to do all the time while he was putting books away or driving in his car.

To her relief, Maya doesn’t attempt to pry for any further information. Instead she goes to one of the cots at the side of the tent to sleep. “You deserve to call it a night, too,” she sighs, empathetic as ever, and yet Clarke can’t bring herself to leave her ex-boyfriend’s side (you know, in case he goes into shock or something…)

“I’ll just watch him for a bit.”

In the end ‘for a bit’ turns into the entire night. By the time her eyes give lose to exhaustion, fluttering shut, the sun has begun to rise. The rays fall on his face just as she remembers, and the sight makes her heart quiver. If he doesn’t make it through this, she’ll never forgive herself.

An uncertain number of hours later, Bellamy’s low groan stirs her awake. Even though her head is heavy from lack of sleep, she feels instantly awake, her eyes widening as they watch his face contort in pain. Because of this, it’s almost inappropriate for her to be this relieved, but she can’t help it.

When he tries to move, Clarke places a hand on his chest to push him back down. “Don’t move,” is her direct order. “I just took three bullets out of you last night.”

At the sound of her voice, Bellamy’s brow furrows, almost as if he’s unsure whether he’s still dreaming. “Wait…” with that, he slowly opens his eyes and turns his head despite the fact that it must hurt like a bitch. Once his gaze settles on her, his jaw — which had been clenched in pain — slacks. “Princess?”

She tears up on at the familiar nickname, though she blinks quickly in order to hide it. “Hi. Long time no see, huh?”

Looking at her, he manages a smile that actually reaches his eyes, making them fill with light. “Yeah, tell me about it. Pity that we should meet again under these circumstances,” just as she’s going to nod, he teasingly continues, “But hey, at least you’re used to seeing me like this. Horizontal, I mean.”

Rolling her eyes, Clarke snorts. “Well, how fucking appropriate. I should have expected it,” despite her words, she can’t resist an easy grin. “We haven’t had sex in six years, so it’s a bold statement, Bellamy.”

He only winks at her.

But then he takes her hand, his touch so soft that it nearly startles her. When he speaks again, his voice is marked by an emotion that she can’t identify. “I really loved you, you know.”

Why would he tell her this now, after all these years? Maybe it’s because he thinks he might die, or that he will never have another chance. Although the timing of his words is random at best, hearing him say it makes her heart quiver in her chest.

Managing a smile, she gives his hand a reassuring squeeze. “You proposed to me, so yeah… I know that.”

She still remembers that night, will likely never forget it. Because he knew her well, Bellamy’s proposal wasn’t extravagant or formal; it was a typical night in his car, which they’d parked on a field in the middle of nowhere to watch the stars — they used to do this all the time together. As though it were yesterday, she remembers hearing the sound of soft rock from the radio before he pulled out the ring.

Maybe it could’ve worked out in the end. It’s weird to imagine what her life would be like had they eloped after graduation as they planned. When it all fell apart, their paths taking opposite directions and driving them away from each other, the break was inevitable.

At least she’s told herself that over and over; that he wasn’t the one.

“I still remember the day I received the ring in the mail,” he mutters, frowning. Then he turns to her, his dark brown eyes apologetic. “I figured it was my own doing. That I let you get away.”

Brushing her fingertips across his freckled cheek for the first time in seven years, Clarke hears her own heart break. To assure him, she shakes her head, admitting that they both played their parts in this; they didn’t try hard enough. “We were too young,” she says, swallowing the lump in her throat. This conversation is years overdue. “But you’re right. We really loved each other.”

For a minute, they simply look at each other, reacquainting themselves with the familiar feeling of their fingers interlacing. Suddenly remembering something, Clarke leaves him if only to locate her wallet in her purse that’s been pushed to the corner. Hidden in a secret compartment that she hasn’t opened since she arrived here, Clarke finds it…

… A Polaroid of them; a pair of teenagers frozen in time: This particular one was captured a couple weeks before they made their relationship official: they’re sitting on the rooftop of his house and Clarke’s kissing his cheek, making him grin boyishly. In the border, she’s written: Babe <3

God, they look so young.

“I kept this,” she smiles, handing the photo to him. Seeing it makes him smile, too.

Yeah… they might’ve been young at the time, but they had a good relationship that was a lot healthier than you’d expect. The more she allows herself to think about it, the reason why it didn’t work out becomes less complicated. In the end, their ties were severed because they were too scared to make the commitment.

Getting married is a big deal, especially when you’re only eighteen.

Clarke hears herself ask, “Do you still have it?”

“Huh?”

Worrying her lower lip, she clarifies. “The ring? Or did you give it to someone else?”

Although there’s no hint of judgment in her voice, even at the last part, Bellamy’s brow furrows in confusion. “God, no. I bought it for you.”

Well, that’s true and very clear when you look at it. At both sides of the clear stone in the middle of the ring, there are two smaller blue ones to match her eyes. Frankly, it must have cost him a fortune, and the fact that she was so quick to send it back to him makes her feel a little ashamed. But eighteen-year-old Clarke was too busy mending her own broken heart to think about his, which is tragic.

Before they can continue their much-needed conversation, however, the painkillers that she gave him during the night start to wear off, so she has to give him another injection. Shortly after, Maya wakes up and insists that she can take over, that Clarke needs to get some sleep. Reluctantly, she obeys.

Before she falls asleep, Clarke hears some of the conversation that Maya initiates with Bellamy, her curiosity unsurprising:

Maya: so…. Clarke mentioned that the two of you used to date in high school?

Bellamy: *chokes on nothing* she did?

Maya: Oh yeah. It’s true, right?

Bellamy: … It is. It’s over now, though *sigh*, has been for a long time.

***

In the afternoon, Clarke wraps Bellamy’s chest in bandages, her hands trembling slightly. Since he’s drugged on painkillers, he’s more silent than usual, watching her work like he used to watch her paint for hours while he did his homework on her bed. When she’s finished, Clarke helps him put his jacket back on, and to her own sheer surprise she can’t resist the urge to run her fingers through his messy hair.

At the familiar touch, Bellamy locks his dark brown eyes onto hers, managing a smile through the pain. “… We could go out for coffee when we get back,” is his offer, which makes her raise her eyebrows, the corners of her lips twitching.

“If we get back, you mean.”

Suddenly, he reaches for her hand and she lets him take it, struggling to swallow the lump in her throat. Of all places she could’ve run into him again, the universe chose a fucking warzone. How fantastic… “They’re probably gonna retire me after this. Send me home.”

A flicker of hope lights up in her chest, causing her heart to skip a beat. “But Miller said you are considered one of the best soldiers in the regiment. Are they gonna let you go just like that?”

“Yeah, probably. I’m not much use when I can barely move, am I?”

Honestly, there’s no telling what it is, but once he’s said these words something within her stirs and shifts, pushing her forward until her lips descend onto his, her hand resting on his knee.

What the fuck is she doing?

Wait. No. What the fuck are THEY doing?

As if he’s acting on instinct, Bellamy wraps his fingertips in her hair as he parts his lips, effectively deepening the kiss a bit. It must be some kind of miracle that he doesn’t taste of war and blood, but he doesn’t taste like she remembers either. Of course, that shouldn’t be a surprise, because no one goes through seven years and comes out unchanged. Still, it feels good, like she’s inches away from touching the stars.

When she moans a little against his lips, he pulls away, which has disappointment prickling like needles under her skin. But he doesn’t go far, their noses grazing. “Woah. That was...” he starts, then cringes before continuing, his voice laced with irony. “Way to go, Blake. Kiss the woman you screwed over seven years ago. How fucking classy.”

Clarke furrows her brow. “You didn’t screw me over. I screwed you over. I was the one who sent back the ring.”

“I was the one who decided to go to UPenn instead of—“

She draws back completely. “Are you fucking kidding me? As if I would’ve wanted you to throw away your acceptance to an Ivy League college and marry me instead? You did the right thing, Bellamy. For you, and I… I just couldn’t handle missing you all the time, and yet I did nothing about it!”

His jaw slacking, Bellamy blinks as he can’t help but stare. For some stupid reason, they’ve never talked about why they broke off the engagement before, mostly because they never talked about anything after they fell apart. “Clarke, come here…”

Tears have welled up in her eyes now, so she’s hesitant, but in the end she steps back into his arms. “I didn’t understand,” is what he whispers, leaning his forehead against hers. “I mean, we had a healthy and good relationship going on. We loved each other, as young as we were, but it slipped through our fingers anyway. You slipped through my fingers, and I— I’ve never been more upset about losing anyone in my life.”

Because she doesn’t know what to say, Clarke leans in to kiss his freckled cheek instead. As the old Polaroid of them shows, she used to do this all the time. Bellamy’s right: They loved one another so much, and not just in a cliché teensy kind of way. In fact, her dad used to say that they acted like they’d been married for twenty years. That’s how strong and undeniable their bond was, until it snapped. Without warning.

It hurt more than she thought was possible.

But still, her heart is screaming to have him back. “When we’re both back in the States,” she murmurs, brushing her thumb along his jawline, which has become sharper with the years. “You’re welcome to visit me. I have an apartment near Central Park.”

She spends the remaining two months in Afghanistan praying that they’ve sent him home — that he’s safe, and that someday she might see him again as an old friend, not an ex-fiancé. Despite the kiss they just shared, it will probably be best if they try to wipe their history clean. Start over.

***

Three months later - Clarke’s apartment, NY

He still likes black coffee; wears sweaters and glasses. At first, they try to talk about “normal” things, such as their favorite spots in the city, but eventually Bellamy sighs, turning towards her with a serious look on his face. Guess what happens in Afghanistan doesn’t stay in Afghanistan, after all. “I’m sorry for kissing you.”

Is he? She pretends that doesn’t hurt and opts for correcting him. “But I kissed you.”

He chuckles around his coffee mug. For a second, she notices the familiar mischievous glint in his dark brown eyes. Instead of continuing down this road, Clarke clears her throat before taking a sharp turn into much more comfortable territory. “I’m glad you’re healing up fine.”

As someone who was shot three times at extremely dangerous places, Bellamy is lucky to be alive, to say the least. She hasn’t told him this yet, but when she saw that it was him on her operating table her heart nearly stopped beating. Never in her life had she imagined that she’d stand with her loved one’s life in her hands.

Still, Bellamy must notice something shift in her facial expression, because he brushes his fingertips across the back of her hand. “You saved my life.”

“Yeah…”

When she frowns, staring at the coffee stains at the edges of her mug, Bellamy’s lips press against her cheek for a second, which has a sigh escaping her lips. There are a million things she wants to say to him, but doing so would ignore how she wants to keep their history buried. In the end, after an eternity of struggling, she gives in. “… I can’t remember why I broke it off with you.”

                                           His brow furrows. After a full minute of silence, he leans back in his chair, runs a hand through his chaotic hair, his silence freaking her out.

Fuck, she shouldn’t have said that. Why did she say that?

Because it’s true, and she doesn’t know how to lie to him. Finally, he chooses to say something that he is certainly entitled to, even if it makes her heart twitch. “It took you seven years and a war to figure that out?”

Daring to make eye contact with him, Clarke sighs. “No. I made the wrong choice, and I knew it as soon as I realized that no one could replace you. By then I was too afraid to call you up. I was terrified that you’d found someone else.”

Frankly, it feels so good to get this truth out, as if the world’s greatest burden has been removed from her shoulders. She’s been in denial for so many years, has tried to convince herself that she didn’t break her own heart when she sent the ring back. Of course, this doesn’t mean that she isn’t scared shitless.

Her voice trembling, Clarke asks, “Are you really sorry for kissing me back?”

“… No, I’m not.”

He says it so matter-of-factly that she nearly falls off her chair. Although Bellamy’s always been a complex and therefore somewhat confusing man, he’s never left her more baffled than right now. “Then why’d you tell me you were?”

Worrying his lower lip, Bellamy brings his mug to his lips despite the fact that there’s no coffee left in it. Once he’s realized that, he sets it back down and lets his fingers drum against the surface of the table for a moment. “Because it wasn’t the right time.”

“I agree.”

Without hesitating, he places his hand above hers. “Despite the poor timing, it did confirm that… that we miss each other, right?”

Clarke feels a smile pull at the corners of her mouth. Since he left her medic tent in Afghanistan, she has tried to calculate the odds of him being brought to her like that; as if the stars aligned to let their paths cross again, after seven years. But she didn’t live those seven years without thinking of him. Sometimes, he’d show up in her dreams as a smiling, soothing figure or an embodiment of her biggest regret.

“Yes, I believe it did.”

They fell in love as kids, but it is impossible to pinpoint a moment where they fell out of love. Because they never really did… Two young people who couldn’t tie themselves down yet, let their paths separate — and now, they have crossed again. Clarke doesn’t think fate or destiny has anything to do with it. Nevertheless, seeing Bellamy again has made her long for change.

When he brushes his thumb along her knuckles it somehow feels familiar and unknown at the same time. “Do you think I deserve a second chance?”

Her heart swells in her chest, tears welling up in her eyes. “Yes. What about me? Do I deserve another chance.”

As Bellamy squeezes her hand in reassurance, sparks appear in his eyes like stars. “Definitely, Princess.”

Looking at him, this man who has loved her for years, Clarke realizes that she will do anything in her power to make sure that they don’t make the same mistakes again. This time, Bellamy has entered her life to stay, and they’re going to do this right. They owe each other that.

#bellarke fanfiction #bffnet #bffwritingteam #a: selflessbellamy #wt: josefine #title: sick of losing soulmates #oneshots #modern au #hurt comfort #soldier!bellamy #doctor!clarke #past relationship #soulmates #reconciliation #prompts

[stopplayshuffle]

MINI MANSIONS CONCERT: WHY CONFIDENCE MATTERS IN WHAT YOU LOVE

 On Monday, June 24th 2019, I attended a Mini Mansions concert at The Independent in SF CA. I’ve seen Mini Mansions perform live before when they opened for Arctic Monkeys at the Bill Graham Civic Center in SF on October 20th 2018. However, this is my first time seeing them at their own show for their own tour. That night was incredible, not just because of their performance, but because I got to actually meet two members from the band.

If you are not familiar with who Mini Mansions are, I’ll give a bit of background. Mini Mansions is a music trio made up of keyboardist/vocalist Tyler Parkford (touring keyboardist for Arctic Monkeys), bassist Zachary Dawes (the Last Shadow Puppets), and guitarist/vocalist/ (former drummer?) Michael Shuman (bassist for Queens of the Stone Age). Mini Mansions is a side project for the three members since, as you can see, each of them are involved in other projects.

I became familiar with them through Arctic Monkeys, since Alex Turner was featured in their 2015 album, The Great Pretenders (track 6: “Vertigo”, if anyone was interested in what song). Then I saw them perform live when they opened for Arctic Monkeys. This isn’t their first time opening for them either, since they opened for them before in their previous tour. Needless to say, they have a strong relationship with those Sheffield lads. While standing there and feeling curious to what their other music was like apart from “Vertigo”, I came to find that their setlist was pretty good. Their music is unique, which is too simple a word to describe the kind of music they make. It’s like vintage ‘60’s rock n’ roll distorted with psychedelic elements, accompanied with groovy bass lines (compliments of Zach Dawes), poppy piano hits (thanks to Tyler Parkford), and bluesy guitar riffs (from multi-instrumentalist Michael Shuman). I am a huge fan of vintage rock/pop, like the Beatles, Beach Boys, you get the picture. So hearing something that is similar to that kind of music will most likely capture my interest. And I was definitely interested in Mini Mansions.

The concert itself was pretty cheap, about $15 a ticket. After spending about $105 for Muse, $120 for Mike Shinoda, and about $70 for Arctic Monkeys, I was pretty stoked how affordable this show was. I didn’t want to stress myself out by trying to arrive 4 hours early to get a decent spot. My mentality was, whatever spot I get is what I get. My sister, Jenni, and I arrived at the venue about 45 minutes before they opened the doors, and to my surprise, there wasn’t a lot of people waiting in line. There were maybe about 6 or 7 people waiting before us. I’m guessing everyone else had the same mentality as I did going into this concert. I was relieved that my feet wouldn’t be worn out from waiting so long, and I now had the energy to withstand the entire show. When we were finally let into the venue, I walked straight to the front of the stage, not using my peripheral vision to catch anything weird or exciting. While standing in front of the carpeted stage with a tape that ran across the edge reading “NO DRINKS” my sister tapped me on my shoulder and asked, “isn’t that Mikey working the merch booth”? as she pointed towards the corner that was diagonally across from where we were. I was like, “No, I don’t think so”, because why would a band member work their own merch booth, right? At least that’s what my dumbass thought. But then I squinted my eyes towards the direction she was pointing at, and as my eyes were adjusting in that dark room, with only a dim light hovering around the merch booth, I could tell from the gelled back hair that it was indeed Michael Shuman. He was wearing an all-black outfit: black moto jacket, black t-shirt, black skinny jeans, and black shoes. Pretty casual. This is the exact opposite to the outfit he will later change into when he will perform, which was a white satin suit with some watercolor accents on it.

It was like having two personas, one being the regular guy selling band stuff and the other is the performer. I thought it was cool that he was working the merch booth because he wasn’t acting like he was too good to sell his stuff.

Jen asked me if I wanted to buy something, and despite the fact that I needed to save as much money as possible to have enough for my rent and other bills for the summer before school starts I said, “Hell yeah I wanna buy something!” But at the same time, I kept staring at the front of the stage, and I was apprehensive because I got a decent spot for the concert. The woman next to me told me, “You totally should, they’re really nice, I mean I’ll try to extend my arm out as much as possible to save your spot”. God, what a nice woman. I thanked my fellow concert friend and walked up to the line. There was only two people in front of me and they seemed to be a couple waiting next to each other, so I wouldn’t have to wait too long. But the girl took a while figuring out if she wanted a black Mini Mansions shirt or a white one. At this point, Zach Dawes was also at the booth helping his buddy, Mikey, out with making sure he had enough merchandise at the table. She asked Zach for his opinion, “which color do you like best?” And Zach, with his calm voice says, he liked both of them. I don’t even remember which color this chick went with, but they finally left the line, and I was finally next. I was standing face to face with Mikey Shuman, with only a plastic banquet table in between us. My eyes kept darting from his face to the posters to the left of him.

He actually spoke first and said, “Hi. How are you?”

And like a square I responded with, “I’m good, how are you?

“I’m good!” He said back, “What can I get you?”

“Uhh, may I have that poster please?” I pointed to the poster, which was signed by all 3 members.

“You may” with a dip at the end of “may” (what a polite gentleman).

(I put the poster on the stage so I can take a picture of it. No one was playing yet, btw. But that’s how close I was to the stage).

I didn’t want just a poster, (which I didn’t plan on where I was putting while watching the concert) I wanted something with it, so I asked Mikey if I could buy the CD that had Mini Mansions written in yellow on the top left corner, with a stuffed toy bunny on an illuminated plate. It was their first full length album they ever released, and I didn’t have that album yet. Which by the way, is hard to come by. It was sold out on Amazon for a while, and sold-out on their website too. I tried going to Rasputin Music a few months ago at the mall where I live to see if they had it. The cashier said there was something by Mini Mansions there, but I couldn’t find anything. I tried looking at a record shop in Santa Cruz, but no Mini Mansions CDs there either. I think it may have been available again on their website, but I waited on buying it, but I don’t remember exactly why. I think I wanted to avoid shipping fees and wait for it to be prime available on Amazon. Or maybe I was hoping I will find it in a record shop around where I live.

Anyway, I asked Mikey for the CD and he asked, “This CD right here?” He pointed to the CD.

“Yeah”

He then looked in another box, and when he put the box down empty handed he said, “Wow that was the last one”.

“Cool!” I responded with, like the fucking shy idiot I am.

It took me a while to get this album, I’m glad I waited so I can actually buy the album from the band themselves, but I wish I could’ve responded better.

(Photo of CD taken after the concert on my desk)

What happens next is so surreal that it took me a couple of days to comprehend that it happened. It’s nothing even that spectacular it’s just something that had never happened to me before. He tapped on the tablet the items I was purchasing and told me my stuff was going to be 35 bucks. I handed him my card and he actually swiped my card into the card reader sticking out from the tablet and asked, “Can you sign right here, please?”

This was mind-blowing to me, because I’m thinking shouldn’t it be the other way around? Shouldn’t I be the one asking you to sign me stuff. But I signed the tablet, in a way like I’ve never been excited to sign my name to a purchase before. I couldn’t believe I was buying band merch from the actual band member himself, it was awesome. After he gave me my stuff, I handed them to my sister and asked him if I could shake his hand. The guy puts the tablet down and sticks out his hand and I’m fucking touching Mikey Shuman’s hand. I thanked him, and if I wasn’t enough of a square, my sister noticed an awkward silence and finally said, “I think you guys are great and I’m really excited for the show!” Both Zach and Mikey said thank you and both shook Jen’s hand. I thanked Mikey again and leaned over to shake Zach’s hand and went back to the front of the stage.

Obviously, I was excited that I met two of the members from the band. I couldn’t believe I actually talked to them. But I still felt unsatisfied, not with them of course, but with myself. I want to be a music journalist and interview bands and study music as a career. Because I have anxiety issues, including a bit of social anxiety, I am always awkward and shy when I meet people, which does not help me in the long run at all. There were so many things I could’ve asked Mikey: What do you like to play more, bass, drums, or guitar? I love how bluesy you get in The Great Pretenders, what was the inspiration for that?  I couldn’t even ask him something as basic as, hey how are you liking SF this time around? Anything weird happen to you yet? Ever been to Oakland? My God I suck. I could’ve even said, Wow, this is the last CD? No way? How lucky am I? Such a missed opportunity to connect with the band, and actually work on my people skills when I meet musicians for the job I want. Despite the fact that I wish I could go back in time to alter how I met Mikey and Zach, I was still grateful for the encounter I had. It’s not a common thing for me to meet the people who make the music I like.

Their performance was also great. After watching two openers, Tyler Parkford finally came out, but to set up his keyboard directly above me. He bent down and plugged some wires in. I’m sure it’s creepy having people stare at you while you’re doing something, so I looked away so he can do his job. But at one point I looked back up at his direction and while he was standing behind his keyboard, he looked at me and I smiled at him. I was happy that he smiled back. Unfortunately I never got to talk to Tyler that night, but I’m hoping I will in the future.

After Mikey sound checked all of the equipment, they began to play. They started off with “Freakout!” which is what they started with when they opened for Arctic Monkeys. The song isn’t super intense but has an upbeat tempo that is perfect for getting the crowd going. They mostly played songs from The Great Pretenders, but incorporated a few from their upcoming album, Guy Walks into a Bar… So we were getting that mix of relaxed familiarity from being able to sing along with the songs we already knew, and the excitement from the new songs from the album that has yet to come. A variety of uplifting emotions that was getting the crowd pumped. The song I connected to live the most was “Works Every Time”. “Works Every Time” is from their upcoming album, but they released it on their EP with the same title first. Since the song had been out for some time now, I was already familiar with it, and enjoyed the calm soulful singing of Parkford and swaggering bass lines of Dawes. The kind of sound that someone can listen to while driving late at night. But hearing it live was a different experience for me. The dreamy tone from the piano was more upfront, maybe because I noticed it more? I don’t know, but it was lovely.

Zach was a little shy when I met him, since he didn’t really say much; however, on stage he wasn’t shy rocking out those bass lines with his buddies. The guy has mad rhythm with his bass, and he didn’t look nervous on stage. If he was nervous, then I couldn’t tell because he played each song so naturally. I know if that was me up there, I’d probably mess up a lot from nerves, since I can barely sing right while singing karaoke with two friends.

When it came to the more fast tempo songs, especially “Mirror Mountain” all the guys got really into it, but Mikey was not shy of wailing around and screaming loud into the mic. I enjoy watching him get this intense honestly, [even though a couple of the audience members who I talked to at the Bart station after the show told me, at another Mini Mansions concert they went to in Sacramento, were afraid of Mikey potentially kicking them sometimes while he was rocking out, but luckily he didn’t]. His punk rock energy bounced across the entire stage, and as a direct result I got pumped watching him go. There was a point during “Mirror Mountain” when he bent down real close to the edge of the stage. He puts the mic close to his lips, and his palm held the back of an audience member’s nape. He sang close to this young man’s ear, and the young man smiled, probably from the attention he was receiving from Mikey, but he was also leaning back, possibly because he was trying not to get too close to him. Looking back at it now, I didn’t know what was going through that kid’s head, but he seemed unsure of how to react when the singer/guitarist for Mini Mansions was singing physically close to his face. I wouldn’t know either, to be honest, if that was me.

Needless to say, there’s a level of boldness that is needed to get that close to someone, without having that internal conversation wondering if you’re doing too much or just enough. He just did it.  While performing, he used his entire body (from his voice to his legs) to express himself, and while some people would think that’s too much or bold, either way, people are looking.

But that’s the thing when you express yourself in something you care about, may that be writing, food, books, or music, it will show. With Mikey, Zach, and Tyler they used their talents to create this interesting concoction of vintage inspired contemporary indie rock. They went with what they had, released it, and was able to perform it in about every part of the world.

In the end, they are going places with it, this thing that they love, or at least what it seems to me they love. In other words, they just went for it. I wish I could possess at least half the confidence of what they have. Maybe if I did, I would’ve been less awkward when I met Mikey and Zach.  Now, I’m not saying confidence is the only thing a person needs to pursue what they want, but confidence helps push someone toward what they want. With confidence, you can stand on a stage and exercise your skills in front of people, you can be yourself without the fear of judgement, you can talk to someone you’ve never met before and have a great conversation. With confidence, you just go for it.

#minimansions #mikeyshoes #tyler parkford #zach dawes #concert #indie #music

[hellas-himself]

Ch. 5 Together on Christmas

Ch.4 

After the death of his father, Azriel is forced to go back to the one place he swore he’d never return to. But he finds himself quite literally face to face with his past, one that he had not let himself think of since he’d left. 

Ch. 6

.

.

.

Elain was standing in front of the dresser, looking at a picture taken right before I left. Our parents were sitting together, holding hands, with me and my brothers standing behind them. Rhys was in the middle, an arm around me and Cassian, grinning like the prick he was. Cassian was in the middle of a laugh and I looked about ready to disappear. 

“Bed is ready,” I said and she turned around to where I stood. The throw pillows were on the chest in front of the bed, the comforter folded over to the end. She smiled.

“Are you sure your mom is okay with me staying here?”

“Feyre spent the night way before she married Rhys. It’s fine.”

She laughed. “In his room?”

“God, you don’t want me to answer that.”

“Point taken.”

“So, left or right?” I asked and Elain just laughed and walked right towards me.

“Doesn’t matter.”

She took my hand as she climbed into bed and I went in after her, pulling the blanket over us. We were lying on our backs, looking up at the ceiling.

“Dinner was nice,” she said.

“I hope they didn’t tease you too much.”

“It didn’t bother me.”

“You might have to come help my dad with holiday dinners more often though. We hardly have any leftovers for tomorrow.”

Elain turned so that she was looking at me.

“You’re silly.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Only if you’ll play music again.”

I turned on my side, putting an arm around her and pulling her against me.

“I think we have a deal.”

She smiled. “I think we do.”

*

Elain was asleep, clutching the blanket to her chest. I got out of bed, finding my briefs and pajama pants. Sunrise wasn’t too far off so I didn’t need a light to look through my bag and take out the box my mother had left for me. I took the key out of the envelope, checking on Elain every now and then. But she was still sleeping.

The hinges of the box creaked slightly and I kept my gaze on Elain until it was opened. Inside, I found an envelope addressed to me, a small black box, and a little satchel that had the gold bracelet with the mano de azabache on it. I don’t know why that brought tears to my eyes, I would have worn that as a baby. A toddler. Maybe once my childhood hadn’t been so bad.

There was more money, tied with rubber bands and some pictures of us- one from the day I was born, another on my first birthday. I don’t know who took the picture, but she was holding me up, cake frosting on my face and hers. I saw kids at the table and other adults I’d never met. Were they her family? I’d never gotten to know them. She’d been my father’s maid, at first. Then the nanny. She’d run away from home, I knew that much, and though he had been married, she saw my father as her way out. And somehow, she loved him. But his wife, my half-brothers- they made our lives a living hell. I hated my father for allowing it. It was confusing, to see him with her, holding me, smiling. I never saw him smile, never at me, anyway. I was tempted to rip it in half, but I looked at the next one.

I was in a hospital bed, bandages around my hands. She was in the middle of a story, it seemed, Rhys was half asleep in his mother’s lap and Cassian was listening to her. And according to the note on the back, Rhysand’s dad had taken the picture. There were more… But I didn’t feel like I could look at them. Not yet. So I opened the envelope with my name on it and decided that maybe the pictures were easier than this.

Mi querido hijo, she wrote. Perdoname. Over and over she apologized. For not keeping me safe. For giving me up. For staying with my father. But she had never believed she was capable of giving me the life that Rhysand and Cassian had. She’d known Cassian’s mother, and knew that I would be in good hands. But the apologies continued and then, they stopped. She was proud of me. She missed me every day, she hated that I’d been deployed. Hated that I lived so far away, but knew that I was better off. It hurt. Hurt that she believed I was better off without her. How many times had I begged her to leave with me?

She wrote about Elain, about the things they did together… and about how much Elain talked about me. I see it in her eyes, Lito, she loves you. And I know that you love her. I looked up at where Elain was, still asleep. I couldn’t give you much before, she wrote, but maybe I can give you and Elain a head start.

*

“We’re together on Christmas,” Elain said as she wrapped the towel around herself. The bathroom floor was freezing so I picked her up which made her laugh.

“That we are,” I replied.

“Is everyone really still sleeping?” she asked as I set her down on the bed.

“Yeah… But don’t worry, once Cassian wakes up, so will everyone else.”

I brought her my shirt, and handed off her bag. Her bag had more skin care and make up than actual clothes but I guess I really didn’t mind it. Getting dressed proved to be difficult, but we managed it just in time to hear Cassian banging on Rhysand’s door. Elain answered the door when he started knocking on ours, wearing my shirt, leggings and a pair of fuzzy Christmas socks she’d brought from her apartment.

“How did we sleep?” Cassian asked with a grin, leaning against the doorframe.

“I don’t think I woke up once,” she said and gave him a hug. “Merry Christmas, Cas.”

“Merry Christmas, Elain.” He looked at me. “Put a shirt on or else mom and Nesta will know what you two were doing last night.”

Elain pinched his side for that.

Everyone gathered in the living room, the tree surrounded by presents.

“Who wants to go first?” mom asked, leaning against our dad as he drank his coffee.

“I will,” Cassian said and started tossing presents at everyone from him and Nesta. A new phone for mom, imported cigars for dad as well as a watch, the cheesiest matching pajamas for Rhys and Feyre who would have run off to change in them if I didn’t know that it was taking Feyre a lot of effort not to throw up her breakfast. I wasn’t going to open my gift in front of them but Elain wanted to see. I raised a brow at the gloves and scarf, as nice as they were. Cassian only grinned.

“I had a feeling you’d need them… Considering Illyria is freezing most of the year.”

“What?”

“Emerie told him where you were the moment she saw you driving into town,” Nesta said, giving Cassian a playful shove. I sighed, thanking them even if I wanted to wipe that grin off Cassian’s face.

I’d had my gifts to everyone mailed in as I had not intended on being here until New Year’s… But it was nice to actually see their reactions in person. A gold bracelet for mom with our birthstones on it, a ring made of gold with an obsidian stone for dad. Books for Nesta, a set of watercolor paints for Feyre and a big enough palette to store them in, a Switch for Cassian which made Nesta sigh. He was already taking it out of the box to get it running. “Now he won’t bother you when you’re reading,” Feyre teased which made Nesta smile.

Rhys and Feyre went last, with Rhys handing our parents a box while Feyre had Cassian toss the rest since he was sitting closest to the tree. I purposely took my time opening mine because I knew what was inside. But in typical Rhys fashion, inside the box was another box, and another and another- until our mom was threatening Rhys with her scissors. The rest of us were content to watch them go at it as they did every year. His gifts to her were almost always worth the hassle, and he promised her that this year’s was even better. But he said that every year.

“Coño, be careful!” Rhys shouted as dad went to just rip the whole thing apart- also, a yearly occurrence.

“What is this?” mom asked as she set the other boxes aside and held the semi torn black box in her hands. She lifted the lid and set it aside. Her eyes widened, and it was almost like everything kind of stopped as she looked at Rhys and then at Feyre and back at the box on her lap. She pulled out the little black onesie, the tiny socks… the picture frame with the ultrasound picture Feyre had sent me just days before. I hadn’t seen our dad cry in a long time, but there he was, holding that onesie and crying.

“Vente pa’ca, puñeta,” he said to Rhys, pulling him in for a hug. “Is this real?”

“Yeah, viejo,” he replied. “You’re going to be grandparents.”

Our mother’s words were incoherent as she pulled Rhys out of our dad’s hold and squeezed him tight. Rhys was laughing as tears fell from his eyes.

They got up to go cover Feyre with kisses, my mother already fussing over her. Her sisters hadn’t known and wasted no time in going to congratulate her. Cassian lifted Rhys up and hugged him so hard I was surprised Rhys hadn’t cracked his spine.

“How are you so calm?” Cas asked me. “We’re going to be uncles.”

I was going to say I already knew but Rhys chimed in first.

“You know Az isn’t going to cry in front of us. Especially with Elain here. He has a reputation to uphold.”

I flipped him off and of course mom saw it. Rhys laughed at me but then was quickly silenced by her glare.

*

I watched as Feyre lay back on the sofa, her shirt up as my mom took Nesta’s gold chain and Elain’s ring and held it over Feyre’s belly.

“It’s too early,” dad said but she shushed him.

“It’s never too early.”

“Is it supposed to move?” Feyre asked.

“It’s not moving?” dad practically shouted and went to stand beside Rhys. He looked just as excited as Rhys did. It wasn’t moving at all.

“What does that mean?” Elain inquired.

“That means it’s a boy,” mom replied. “I did it for Rhys. And I was right about Mor.”

“Can I get the knife and the screw driver?” dad asked her and my mom laughed, giving Nesta and Elain their jewelry back.

I got up from where I was sitting and stood beside Elain. I put an arm around her shoulder and smiled when she reached up to lace her fingers with mine.

“Show me your hands,” I said to Feyre who looked at me like I’d just grown a second head. But she sat up and did just that. Palms up, almost in fists. “Boy.”

The room was now filled with shouting, Cassian lifting Rhys off the floor and shaking him.

“Does that really work?” Elain asked me.

I shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out in a few months.”

“I think it’s sweet.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes… It’s something to look forward to.”

We looked at one another and I wondered if she was still talking about Feyre and Rhysand’s baby.

“Yeah, it is,” I replied.

Elain smiled and I decided she was right.

*

Elain and I sat outside on the porch swing. Everyone was inside, already dancing and drinking. Feyre went up to take a nap and I was pretty sure Nesta had gone with her. Elain was leaning into me, her feet barely touching the floor.

“I wish I didn’t have to go back,” she said quietly.

“Do you really have to open back up tomorrow?”

“I’ve never really done this before… Nuala is gone until New Year’s.”

“There’s no one else who could help out while you’re away?”

She shrugged.

“If I find someone to help out, would you stay?”

“But I don’t know anyone who would do that.”

I kissed her forehead. “I do… I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?”

“To extend your vacation, what else?”

Rhys didn’t mind being pulled out of the living room. He didn’t even seem surprised at what I was asking. But of course, the prick wouldn’t do it.

“I’m too drunk, Azrielito… Besides, it would mean more coming from you.”

“Give me your phone.”

“Don’t look through my photo album,” he said after he unlocked it and laughed. I sighed, finding who I wanted to call and walked to the sitting room where no one ever spent any time. It was quiet, too quiet.

“Rhys, what do you want? It’s Christmas,” Lucien said, but I knew he was smiling.

“It’s not Rhys.”

A pause and then, “Azriel. What a surprise.”

“I need to ask you for a favor.”

“Really?” I heard him chuckle. I sighed.

“I want Elain to be able to spend the holidays with her sisters without worrying about the diner.”

I heard him tell Vassa he would be right back, heard as it became a little quieter.

“Where is Elain?”

“Sitting outside on the porch at my parents’ house.”

“You convinced Elain to take a break?”

“It would seem that way.”

Lucien let out a long sigh.

“How long?”

“Just until the third. And I will pay them double.”

“That isn’t really necessary.”

“All the same. I can’t have her worrying about anything.”

“It will take a few phone calls, but please tell Elain to enjoy her vacation.”

I sighed with relief. “Thank you, Lucien.”

“And Az?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t let her get away.”

*

Elain was taking shots with our dad when I walked back to the living room. I handed Rhys his phone and made my way to Elain. She giggled, her cheeks rosy pink.

“You kept me waiting.”

“You’re on vacation, Elain Archeron.”

“What?”

“We’ll go back on the third-”

She pulled me by the collar and kissed me, much to everyone else’s amusement. Our dad patted me on the back when Elain let me go and went over to tell her sisters the news.

“I haven’t seen you smile this much… ever,” he said.

“Yeah, I’m not used to it. My face kinda hurts.”

He laughed and threw an arm around my shoulder. Elain was sitting next to our mom who was talking to her and whatever she was saying had Elain blushing.

“You being home is the greatest gift you could’ve given us… Well, you brought your girlfriend and Feyre…” He sighed, already tearing up again. “I can’t even believe it.”

“Christmas only started, viejo,” I said, my eyes on Elain, feeling my heart race. “There’s still time for more surprises.”

.

.

.

La Mano de Azabache is a black hand on a gold bracelet given to babies to protect them from the evil eye. I had one, my brothers, and every other baby in the family. 

Mi querido hijo means my beloved son and perdoname means forgive me. 

Coño  means dammit lol or sometimes like WHAT THE HELL!! but yeah, lol it’s the same vibe 

Vente pa’ca is the shortened way of say vente para aca which is come here. 

puñeta  is like... asshole, son of a bitch, etc but in Puerto rico we use it as endearment and also like encouragement lol even as a verb. 

I don’t know if anyone else does this but we take any chain, preferably gold, with a ring or other charm on it and if it spins over the belly it’s a girl. if it doesn’t, it’s a boy. it’s ridiculous and I know gender is a social construct but when I was pregnant it was fun to do it with my grandma and aunties. the knife and scew driver is the same idea. you hide them under the sofa and wherever the mom sits, determines the gender. knife girl, screw driver, boy. with the “show me your hands” if you hold them out the way you would at a nail salon (idk how else to describe it) its a girl. if you basically make kind of a fist, palms up with your nails pointing to you, it’s a boy. my grandma did that to me without explaining and she was like GIRL! and the house was in uproar. lol

Happy super late three king’s day! lol 

@dreamerforever-5 @faelightsstarfall

#elriel #elriel holiday au #together on christmas #dia de reyes

[matrixaffiliate]

Salient

Chapter Update! FFN and AO3

Now that Patient and it's 5K+ word chapters are done, Salient gets weekly updates! See you all Saturday, Sept 7th!

Chapter 6

Al had spent all morning Saturday powering through his homework. He managed to finish it all and get a bit ahead before noon, then he moved from school work to cleaning his flat again. He finished cleaning it, then cleaned it a second time, and then realized he didn't have anything planned for the date yet.

And in his panic, he could only think of one thing he wanted to do. But it felt weird and on that same wavelength as stalking her had.

Al wanted to watch Ellie paint.

Not in a creepy way! He reasoned in his head.

There's something about seeing someone doing what they love, in their element, that absolutely fascinated Al. He reasoned it probably started with watching his parents have Seeker scrimmages over the back lawn when he was little. It was only reinforced on the rare occasion he got to watch his dad work on new defense spells, and the consistent opportunity to watch his mum write her articles. You can see a whole new side of a person when you watch them doing their passion, and Al was keen to see every side of Ellie she might be willing to show him.

He passed his phone back and forth between his hands, trying to convince himself to just have her come over and watch Star Wars or some other safe and semi-normal date activity. But his mind was obsessing and Al couldn't get it to stop.

"Just text her and ask," he told himself. "Worst that happens is she says no."

Or calls Mum.

Shite.

Al took a deep breath. He was overreacting. He just needed to approach the question in a not creepy way. Word it better. He could do that.

He opened his text messages

Al: Hi Ellie. I'm excited to see you :) What do you think of starting out our date by letting me see some of your other pieces? I'd love to see something you're working on right now.

He read the text twenty times before finally hitting send. He wanted to be sure it didn't sound like he was being weird because he usually came off as weird...at least that's what a lot of people had told him.

He agonized about that a bit while he waited for his phone to chime with her response.

After an eternity of five minutes, it did.

Ellie: Sure, I know just the one to show you too! See you in thirty minutes?

Al let out an explosive breath. He wasn't sure how he'd done it, but he had somehow managed to not come off as a stalker, and he felt like flying.

Al: Can't wait. See you in thirty.

Al managed to sit still all of thirty seconds before he started to fidget. In order to keep himself from stress cleaning (again), and to make some attempt at clearing his mind, he decided to go on a long walk before walking to Ellie's.

The walk was good. It threatened to rain but thankfully didn't. And Al managed to push his mind over to other things like his experiments and classes. So by the time he was standing in front of Ellie's door, Al felt halfway normal again.

Then Ellie opened the door.

Damn this woman was hell-bent on doing him in. Or maybe he just needed to grow accustomed to her in clothes other than her work clothes? He liked the implications of the second option.

"Hi!" She grinned up at him and Al wasted no time in closing the distance between them to kiss her.

Kissing Ellie was its own kind of magic and Al loved it. It was the kind of magic that trickled down his spine and quieted his mind. It was the kind of magic that made charms and transfiguration feel like parlor tricks and sleight of hand.

"Hi," he whispered against her when she pulled back to take a deep breath.

"Hi," she giggled, "Want to come in?"

He nodded against her forehead, "Only a lot."

She reached down and took his hand and winked at him. "Then follow me, Mr. Potter."

Al swallowed, he kind of liked how she said Potter, like each letter deserved to be said. But it still put his mind on his parents. "Mr. Potter is my dad, El."

"It's you too, silly," Ellie laughed as she led him up the steps.

"Yeah, but I think of my dad when I hear it." Al looked around as she led him through another door and into her aunt and uncle's sitting room.

"Well, then remind yourself that it's me saying it and not anyone else." She winked at him as she pulled him up another staircase.

"That helps," Al chuckled as his nose picked up the smell of something odd.

Ellie led him down a narrow corridor and opened a door to what had to be her room.

There was a large table that took up the majority of the small space littered with paint splatters and three table easels each holding a half-finished canvas. A folding chair was similarly covered in paint. Tubs were under the table full of paint tubes and canvases - both finished and new. The only other piece of furniture in the tight space was her small bed pushed up against the other wall, and Al was sure he noticed paint stains on her pillowcase.

He also realized the smell had been coming from her room.

"Is that the paint I smell?" He noticed her room didn't have a window, which he didn't think suited her at all.

"The varnish, actually," she picked up her wand from her bed and sent a wave of fresh air around them. "I just finished varnishing this one." She pointed to an open tub under the table where a painting of a dock reaching into a body of water sat.

"It's beautiful," Al grinned, resisting the urge to reach out and touch it.

"But you wanted to see something I was working on," she moved to the easels on the table.

Al nodded and came to stand beside her. It was only then that he noticed the three canvases had the same color scheme.

"I can't tell what it's going to be, but are they a set?"

Ellie nodded, "They're a set, and they're in the ugly stage right now."

"Ugly stage?" Al laughed as he wrapped a hand around her waist.

Ellie leaned into him and Al grinned like an idiot. "Some mediums look beautiful from start to finish, like watercolor. Others, like acrylic, look awful for the first eighty percent of the painting before they start to look like something might be salvageable, and it isn't until the last ten percent or so that the painting looks beautiful."

Al chuckled, "So these are acrylic?"

Ellie nodded against his shoulder.

"Do you only paint in acrylic?"

"No, those books," she pointed to a tub under the table, "are all the watercolors I've done since I moved here." She pointed to another tub, "And these are all oil paintings."

"What about those three tubs?" Al pointed to the last three tubs big enough for paintings.

"Those are acrylic paintings."

"So you obviously prefer acrylic," Al chuckled.

Ellie smiled up at him, "I guess I do."

Al held her gaze for a moment, loving that her smile was directed at him.

"So what will these three be?"

Ellie's smile went just a touch sad, "They're home."

"St. John's?" Al pulled her a bit closer, determined to ease the sadness out of her smile.

"And all around the island. My dad and my grandma have a special connection with the land and nature. They took Mum and me all around Newfoundland while I was growing up."

"I bet it was brilliant."

Ellie sighed, looking back at the three canvases. "It's the best sort of magic."

Al held her, not sure how to dissolve the melancholy that had fallen so quickly. Ellie reached out and touched the closest canvas, and Al had an idea.

"Why not finish them?"

"Oh, Al, that'll take me a few hours." Ellie laughed.

"Alright," he pulled her chair out for her and threw his coat on her bed. "This is better than sitting on my couch watching Star Wars together."

"You, you really want to watch me paint? I warn you I'm no Bob Ross."

Al chuckled, "I have no idea who that is, but I honestly believe he can't paint half as well as you do."

"Al," Ellie hedged, looking uncertain.

He pulled her into him and kissed her softly before pulling back a fraction, "Paint, El."

"Do I earn kisses for finishing paintings," she murmured against him before pushing forward and kissing him again.

"You don't earn kisses, El," he smiled, "you get to experience how much will power I have at not simply kissing you all day, every day."

Ellie laughed, her broad smile breaking their kiss completely.

"Now paint," Al grinned and sat on her bed to remove his shoes.

Ellie was nervous at first, her movements jerky and she fumbled with brushes and paint. But Al grinned when her brush hit paint. Her very posture changed as she zoned in, painting through this 'ugly stage'. And Al sat on her bed and watched as she worked. It was amazing to see how masterfully she handled her materials. Moving between the three canvases with each bright color she squeezed out of white tubes smeared in paint. He zoned in with her, mesmerized as the images began to break through the paintings.

Al nearly jumped out of his skin when someone knocked on the door.

"Eliza," a vaguely familiar voice called out.

Al watched Ellie as she came out of her trance, looking much like a little girl being woken early from a nap.

"Yes, Aunt Susan?" Ellie didn't sound like herself, and Al frowned.

The door opened and the woman who'd been his waitress the day Ellie had been set up in the gallery came in.

"Eliza," she paused, "oh dear girl, please tell me you did not make this poor boy sit here and watch you paint."

Al felt outraged at Susan's words and opened his mouth to say so but Ellie beat him to speaking.

"We, I, he wanted to see what home looked like."

"And you have plenty of pictures on your phone, I'm sure." Susan shook her head. "I'm going to throw some dinner together, will the two of you be joining us?"

"No," Al spoke before Ellie could. "I've made other arrangements."

Susan squinted at him, "Oh, you're the boy who asked after Ellie a few days ago."

"That's me," Manners be damned. Al wanted to erect a brick wall between this woman and Ellie.

"Thanks, Aunt Susan," Al turned to see Ellie had returned the paintings.

"Of course, dear," Susan smiled at her back before turning and closing the door.

Al stared at the closed door for a moment, trying to gain control of his indignance.

"She means well," Ellie's voice seemed to seep into his anger like a stream of cold mountain water. "She thinks I'm too caught up in my art to see the real world, and that I'll end up alone and a starving artist."

Al moved from the bed to Ellie's side before kneeling next to her folding chair.

"You see the world better than she does because of your art." He ran his fingers against the paint on her hand. "I won't lie, I kind of want to yell at your aunt right now."

She laughed and leaned down to kiss him. Al would have sacrificed both knees for her to keep kissing him right there, but eventually, she pulled back.

"Thank you."

"Do you want to eat now and finish these after dinner or finish these now and eat later?" Al pressed his forehead against hers.

She glanced at her palette before looking back at him.

"Food now is good. I'm basically out of paint on my palette so I'm not going to be wasting anything. And we don't have to come back and have me paint. We can do something you like too."

Al pressed forward and kissed her briefly. "Please never think I don't like watching you do what you love."

She grinned, "I'd like to see what you love too."

Al smiled, "What's your calendar look like this week? I can always do with an extra evening experimenting."

Ellie brought a paint-smeared hand up to his face. "How about tomorrow?"

"Sounds perfect," and he kissed her.

#Salient #Al x Ellie #albus severus x oc #albus severus potter x eliza battiste #albus x eliza #geeky albus #painter ellie #making muggle technology work with magic #albus goes to muggle university #albus living in the muggle world #Canadian OC #fluff #romance